Bone Idle (25 page)

In fact I didn’t go to bed immediately as I was waylaid by Maurice and Bouncer, both of whom seemed in matey mood and eager for my attention. The cat was showing rare good humour by wrapping himself around my ankles and toying daintily with my shoelaces, while Bouncer, determined to share one of his Bonios, lay sprawled on my lap chewing rhythmically. I settled myself further into the sofa, lit a cigarette and reached out an arm to switch on the nine o’clock news … It was good to be home. With Crumpelmeyer en route for Broadmoor, Samson stalking on the rarefied heights of Scotland Yard and March out to grass, possibly, just possibly, all would be well. I stretched contentedly and lent a languid ear to the reassuring voice of the Home Service.

The voice was rudely interrupted by the jangling of the telephone. I winced: probably the verger. He had caught me earlier in the day, for some reason hell-bent on rearranging the pews in the side chapel. I had managed to fob him off but knew it was only a matter of time … Reluctantly I turned off the wireless and ambled into the hall.

It wasn’t the verger. It was Ingaza – incandescent.

Recovering from the torrent of blasphemy, which seemed to involve myself in some large measure, I asked him what the problem was.

‘The problem, Francis,’ he said in grating tones, ‘is that the American joker whom you so kindly introduced me to has turned out to be an unscrupulous thieving bastard who has cost me not only a hell of a lot of money but also a great deal of time and ingenuity. And it’s all your fault!’

I was bewildered. ‘But surely you got the money, didn’t you? Eric told me you had clinched the deal before he was arrested. Flutzveldt had already paid up and you were returning with an attaché case full of dollar bills. What went wrong?’

‘What went wrong was that the sod short-changed me: the top two layers of notes were kosher, the rest frigging counterfeits, and I’ve only just discovered. I used some in America to begin with, and then when I was back here started to exchange them for sterling in batches and at intervals. Everything was fine. But
yesterday
when I took a small wad from the lower layer into the Eastbourne post office, the snivelling little clerk had the nerve to tell me they were fake. Naturally I evinced shock and horror (came quite naturally, I can tell you!), spun some yarn about my grandmother’s footsteps and got out sharpish before he could gather his wits. When I consulted with a colleague in the business he confirmed they were all as fake as a tart’s kiss.’

‘Oh dear!’ I said.

‘I should think it is “oh dear”! My total profit from the whole project is about two hundred quid, and if you think for one moment that you’re going to get a percentage of that you can think again. In fact, if anything, it’s you who should be paying me – it cost me a fortune taking Lil to Bournemouth, and now the old bat’s saying she can’t wait to go again. If you hadn’t been such a smart-arse none of this would have happened!’ He paused, presumably collecting his breath for a further onslaught.

I tried to divert things by asking about Claude, and whether his hopes of appearing in Flutzveldt’s publication had also been dashed.

‘No such luck,’ Nicholas said bitterly. ‘Bought a copy of that magazine to read on the plane, and there was his smug face simpering out from the centre page along with a load of bilge about that bloody pig. I’m fed up with it all!’ He sounded deeply troubled.

‘Well,’ I said gently, ‘after all, you have made
some
profit – and I daresay something else will turn up in due course.’

‘Oh, it will, Francis, it will. In fact –’ and here his voice reverted to its familiar silken suavity – ‘that’s really what I am telephoning about. Those deeds which you were so kind as to lend me – I think it is time we put them to some use.’

I had feared as much, and with sinking heart asked what he proposed.

‘What I propose, dear boy, is that you and I – and of course your delightful sister whom I’ve already approached – should embark on a little jaunt to the Auvergne, make an assessment of La Folie de Fotherington and then, all being well, stake our claim – that is to say, of course,
your
claim …’ (At least he had the grace to make the correction.)

‘But I thought you were going under your own steam anyway,’ I replied dully.

‘Yes, a passing thought; but on reflection and in view of recent events, I think it would be
so
much nicer if the three of us went together. After all, although the deeds are in my temporary possession
you
are the title holder; and were there to be any tiresome local difficulties it would be helpful to have the actual owner to hand. You know how bureaucratic the Frogs are. Besides, I could do with a little Gallic gaiety after all I’ve been put through.’

‘Hmm,’ I grunted, wondering ruefully what he imagined I had been enduring for the last eighteen months.

‘And I tell you what, while we’re there I can get old Henri Martineau to come down from Taupinière. Being both of the cloth you’ll have so much in common.’

‘Martineau!’ I yelped. ‘You surely don’t mean that maleficent French priest who hid your rotten paintings in his bell tower!’

He coughed delicately. ‘Well, one of the two … the English counterpart made rather a mess of things …’

It was a blow beneath the belt but I let it go, and instead demanded why on earth he thought that unsavoury cleric from the Pas de Calais would be remotely relevant to his scheme.

‘How’s your French, old man?’

‘What? Er … not too good really.’

‘Exactly. Doubtless mine is better than yours, but nevertheless it lacks refinement. Hence Henri. He could be very useful.’

I very much doubted whether any use, let alone refinement, could come from that particular quarter; but it was obvious that Ingaza had the bit between the teeth and there would be no stopping him. Images of Foxford Wood on that fateful June morning came to mind: the bluebells, the rabbits – Elizabeth’s lolling corpse. And with a weight of resignation I knew then that I would be forever in his grasp …

‘At the moment,’ he continued blandly, ‘I am rather deluged with other considerations, but give me a month or so and I’ll be in touch – be assured, you can count on it!’

‘Wonderful,’ I murmured.

Needless to say, there were irritating repercussions to the Crumplehorn business, not least the vicar’s sister finding those Fotherington deeds which I had so carefully secreted in my litter tray. At first I did not think this would amount to anything very much: the sister would create a drama and F.O. curse and bluster – and that would be it. Foolishly I had overlooked the Type from Brighton. His interference has since caused the vicar endless perturbation, and I fear more is to come. From what I could make out the Ingaza person is intent on going to France to investigate the property to which the deeds belong. For some reason this induced in our master a state of pallid inertia, a condition which did not prevent the house reverberating to the sound of loud groanings and expostulations over the damaged shoulder. Anyone would think he was the only one to be so afflicted! After all, I too was a martyr to the gross one’s fury, as after the disgraceful episode of my being kicked the length of F.O.’s sitting room it has taken me considerable time to regain my usual agility. Naturally, unlike the vicar, I have borne this with reticent fortitude. So reticent, in fact, that Bouncer seemed unable to grasp why I was in no condition to play leap-frog with him in Mavis Briggs’s cabbage patch. However, I grow stronger daily and if that dog imagines for one minute that I have lost my skill
sportif
then he is in for a nasty shock!

My convalescence had given me time to mull over the question of the Fotherington deeds and the French property – although I like to think that my own cogitations upon thematter were conducted in a vein rather calmer than the vicar’s. When I told Bouncer that I thought we might be faced with some sort of Gallic fracas, he launched into a disgusting rhyme which began, ‘Le chat crept into la crypte, shat et …’ It was of course one of his puerile variations on an old theme, and I told him that though doubtless that was the sort of low obscenity which O’Shaughnessy might appreciate, cats had superior tastes. He then had the nerve to reply that, given my propensities, perhaps I would prefer a ditty involving a ‘pauvre petty souris’. (Obviously Pierre the Ponce’s influence.) I retorted that if he did not curb his crude inanities I would sing him a ditty he would be unlikely to forget! However, my words had little effect, and he wandered into the shrubbery snuffling at the awful bell-jangling ball.

Left alone I harried the hedgehog, unravelled the string securing a hollyhock to its cane, and scratched up a few shallowly planted bulbs in next door’s garden. I would have stayed longer but the baby was giving tongue and I cannot abide its caterwaulings. So returning to the vicarage I decided to indulge myself in a warming patch of sun, and thus jumped up on to the wide ledge beneath the study window and stretched my length. I was just beginning to melt into a doze when I was startled to hear thunderous snoring from within. Annoyed by the din, I glared through the glass and then poked my head round the frame.

Lolling on their backs on the sofa, legs akimbo and eyes tightly shut, lay dog and vicar dead to the world. I stared irritably – bone idle the pair of them! And then as I watched, unaccountably my mood began to mellow and I had to concede that on the whole I could do far worse than suffer a buffoon for a companion and a murderer for a master. After all, if it had not been for F.O. I should still be enduring the incessant cooings of Mrs Fotherington!

And thus as I gazed, and perhaps mesmerized by their rhythm, I once more felt sleep coming upon me; and alighting from my perch joined the snorers on the sofa.

Ingaza’s proposal had been the last straw, and I tentatively wondered about invoking St Jude, saint of hopeless cases; but feeling he had probably more than enough on his plate thought it unfair to add my woes to his burden. Instead I sought temporary refuge by trying to bury myself in the busy normality of parish life. Compared with Ingaza and his machinations even Edith Hopgarden seemed a welcome relief (initially at any rate). Indeed, so eager was I to resume the norm, that seeing her emerging from the vestry I seized the chance to pay fulsome compliments about the brilliance of the gilded eagle on the lectern. ‘Amazing what a good dose of Brasso does!’ I exclaimed jovially.

She looked surprised. And then giving me a withering scowl, replied that it had nothing to do with Brasso and all to do with elbow grease. Duly admonished I smiled weakly, said it was jolly good anyway, and scuttled on.

I didn’t get far, as at the south door I was waylaid by Miss Dalrymple evidently arrived to pursue her foraging for the choirboys’ chewing-gum deposits. She wore that avid expression which I rather imagine is seen on the faces of truffle hounds in the Dordogne.

‘Ah, Canon,’ she boomed, ‘I was just thinking about you!’

‘Oh yes?’ I said nervously.

‘Yes. I mean to say, your inaugural address isn’t far off, is it?’ She grinned wolfishly.

‘Er, no,’ I replied vaguely, ‘no, it isn’t …’

‘We are so looking forward to it!’ she brayed.

‘Good,’ I said shortly.

‘Indeed we are,’ she enthused. ‘After all, it can only be better than the last one … Can’t remember the man’s name now, but it was awful. All about turning the other cheek to those that smite you. Well,’ and she lowered her voice grimly, ‘I can tell you, Canon, were anyone to smite
me
they certainly wouldn’t get away with it. There is something known as righteous anger, you know!’

‘Ye-es,’ I conceded uneasily, ‘but –’

‘Anyway, there will be no such tosh from you, I’ll be bound. Why, I was saying to Colonel Dawlish only the other day – “Oughterard will have something useful up his sleeve, you mark my words!”’

I thanked her for her faith and enquired diffidently what Colonel Dawlish had had to say on the subject.

‘Oh, you know him,’ she said dismissively, ‘sucked on that foul pipe and said nothing. But
I
know that something good is brewing!’ And with a conspiratorial leer she stomped off towards the choir stalls.

I gazed after her flattered and despondent … A theme, a theme, my parish for a theme! If nothing emerged soon, and as a last resort, I should be forced into asking Clinker for an idea. Presumably he would at least come up with something a little more helpful than the Max Miller suggestion from Primrose! I sighed, and wandered out to inspect a damaged drainpipe.

On my way home I did something which I don’t normally do – stopped at the Swan and Goose for a pre-prandial. It’s not that I have anything against public houses, and in my Bermondsey days such visits by the clergy were considered de rigueur (all part of the democratizing process, we were earnestly told), but I am not one who is instinctively matey and I suspect that the sight of a dog-collared figure downing shorts on his own would do little to enhance the spirits of the Molehill regulars. However, that evening for some reason the inclination came upon me, and I slipped into the saloon bar and ordered a whisky and a bag of crisps.

I sat on one of the wooden settles and was just about to open the packet, when a voice cried, ‘Ooh, I could do with a couple of those, Reverend. Just what I fancy!’ I looked up startled. It was Mrs Carruthers.

She detached herself from the bar stool and, rather carefully I thought, made her way to where I was sitting. Placing a large sweet Martini on the table, she sat down beside me grinning broadly. ‘Well, dear, this is a happy surprise and no mistake! Haven’t seen you for
ages
. Where have you been hiding yourself these days?’

I murmured something about being terribly busy with meetings and funerals, and then offering her the crisps asked how she was.

‘In the pink, dear, in the pink! Do you know what – I’ve just won fifty nice ones on the three-thirty at Newbury. A real outsider, came in at fifty to one. And you’ll never guess its name, not in a million years you won’t!’

I took a gulp of my whisky and regarded her soberly. ‘I think I can.’

‘Course not – you’re having me on!’

‘Want a bet?’

She cackled with laughter. ‘We’ll settle for a drink. I’ll buy you another of those if you get it right, but you won’t!’

I had in fact glanced at the list of the Newbury runners earlier in the day. At the time they had meant little to me, but talking now to Mrs Carruthers one in particular came back into my mind.

‘Gnomic,’ I said. ‘You bet on Gnomic.’

There was a pause, followed by a scream of mirth so loud that I thought the glass in the lamp might break. ‘You are a one,’ she gasped, ‘trust you to know that! Really stolen my thunder, you have!’ She turned to the barman. ‘Did you hear that, Harry? The vicar’s guessed the horse I backed – what do you think of that! We’d better have another couple!’

‘Well, it was hardly difficult,’ I said. ‘I mean, owning a place positively rampant with garden gnomes what else could you have chosen?’ This was met by further gusts of delighted mirth as she scrabbled in her handbag for her purse. I told her I had no intention of accepting a drink from such a charming lady and that naturally the second round was to be mine. I ordered a small Scotch and another large Martini for her, making sure it came richly embellished with a double cherry stick.

‘Well, here’s to gnomes, dear!’ she cried gaily.

‘To gnomes,’ I said, raising my glass.

She sipped with pleasure. And then leaning towards me and lowering her voice, said, ‘You know, I am rather worried about our Mr Clinker. He’s missed the last two sessions. It’s not like him at all, specially as he hasn’t sent a message. After you telephoned that time to say he was ill and couldn’t keep his appointment for the practice I got quite anxious. In fact I did call the Palace once, but there was a very hoity-toity voice on the other end who said he was in the peak of health – his wife, I suppose!’ And she giggled.

‘I think he’s been lying low rather … er, that is to say,’ I added hastily, ‘I think he’s been pretty occupied. Synod, Lambeth and things …’

‘Sounds awfully bleak to me. He’d do far better to come back to the Wednesday sessions. Buck him up, they would. Besides,’ she added wistfully, ‘we miss him, you know, things just aren’t the same when he’s not there. He’s ever such fun when he really gets going!’

I had often witnessed the bishop ‘get going’, but in my experience fun was rarely the outcome. However, it is amazing how limited one’s knowledge of people is … But then I recalled Ingaza’s extraordinary revelation about his pre-episcopal days at Oxford; and indeed, nearer the present time, the spectacular dancing display on my sitting-room carpet fired by drink and absence from Gladys …

I smiled. ‘Yes, I expect he has his moments.’

‘Oh, doesn’t he just!’ she crowed. ‘But I tell you what, why don’t
you
have a word with him? Tell him his partners are pining and that we’ll never win the Bracknell Cup without him!’

‘Me?’ I said, startled.

‘Oh yes, he’d take it from you all right.’

‘I rather doubt that –’ I began.

‘Oh yes, dear,’ she exclaimed. ‘If he’s said it once, he’s said it a dozen times: “Ah, Oughterard – a safe pair of hands there, very safe.”’ She intoned throatily in a voice not dissimilar to Clinker’s. And giving me a playful slap on the knuckles, she added, ‘Well, I wouldn’t know about safe of course, but they’re very nice!’ I blushed to the roots while she lapsed into the usual cachinnations. And then recovering herself briefly, she added, ‘No, seriously, it would be ever so helpful if you could put in a word, it’s not half as nice without him.’

She looked quite pensive, and I heard myself saying that I would certainly do my best. She brightened immediately, and I think that, had I not stood up making noises about getting the animals’ supper, she would have invited me to share in a third Martini.

As I reached the door she waved a voluble and lavish farewell before turning back to engage the barman in garrulous banter.

I reached home curiously invigorated; and then, with the gales of her laughter ringing in my ears, took the bull by the horns and dialled the bishop’s number …

Instantly my buoyed spirits sank. It was Gladys. ‘What do you want?’ she rasped.

The combination of two whiskies and the gaiety of Annie Carruthers had rather blunted my mind to the possibility that the recipient might not be Clinker. Thus when she declared curtly that he was very busy and couldn’t it wait, I was at first nonplussed as to how to answer. Clearly a covert message of encouragement from his erstwhile tiddlywinks partner could not be delivered. Something else was needed.

‘Ah … His Lordship may recall that my inaugural address to the diocese is in the offing and I was rather hoping he might be able to give me a little guidance … There are one or two things that I just need to straighten out –’

‘Oh, if that’s all,’ she said impatiently, ‘I expect he can spare a few minutes. But kindly don’t keep him long; we have my sister staying again next week and it is essential that I go over the arrangements with him.’ There was a clatter followed by a silence, and then in the distance I caught the tail end of a shouted delivery, ‘… Oughterard, rambling on about some sermon. Don’t let him take all night …’

I heard the sound of footsteps and the receiver was picked up. ‘Ah, Francis,’ said the familiar voice, ‘glad you’ve phoned, dear fellow.’ (‘Dear fellow’ – was he abstracted?) ‘Now what can I do for you? Something about your address, I gather.’ The tone was unusually emollient, avuncular even, and I guessed she had been giving him a hard time.

I wanted to launch straight into Mrs Carruthers but felt some tactful prelude was required. ‘Er, yes actually. Sounds ridiculous, sir, but I’m a bit stuck for a theme – I mean one that would be both appropriate and topical. It seems a little feeble relying on the safe and tried, but on the other hand one doesn’t want to be
too
radical! I suppose for this sort of thing it’s a question of finding just the right balance, and I’m not sure that I’ve –’

‘You’re
so
right, Oughterard,’ he broke in, ‘all a case of fine tuning, as I used to tell my students. Fine tuning! Sensible of you to appreciate that.’ The voice of confident patronage held an almost genial note, relief presumably at dealing with one more tractable than his spouse.

I told him I would be grateful for any tips. Unfortunately such deference was only too well appreciated, for the next ten minutes were taken up with a barrage of recommended topics including one which he entitled ‘spiritual homicide’. I was tempted to say that I was better acquainted with the physical kind – but refrained. However, he then got on to matters sexual and declared that in view of the current lamentable lapse into sensuality doubtless a subject along those lines would fit the bill. I said I did not think so.

‘In that case,’ he opined, ‘a good general topic on which you can put your own top spin … Sin and Sloth, that’s the one! There’s far too much bone idleness around these days – and I think somebody like you could convey that very well, and what’s more …’ And thus on he prosed, temporarily freed from Gladys and in his element. It had to stop.

‘I say, sir,’ I cut in brightly, ‘I was talking to Mrs Carruthers the other day and she was very worried that your tiddlywinks might be getting a little rusty. Seems to think that without you the Bracknell Cup is a lost cause – quite upset she was.’

There was a long pause. And then he said
sotto voce
, ‘Look here, Oughterard, to tell you the truth, since that ghastly business in Savage’s shed I’ve rather lost my nerve. Every time I think of counters and dice all I can see are those frightful legs! It’s beginning to get me down.’

I felt scant sympathy. Got him down? He wanted to try being knifed by a paranoid lunatic! However, assuming my most cajoling tone, I said, ‘Ah, but that’s probably what’s needed – what I believe our Freudian friends call aversion therapy. Apparently when you confront what most unsettles you there’s a sort of relief, and all the tension just drains away and …’

‘Hmm,’ he muttered. ‘Drains away, does it?’

‘Oh yes,’ I said authoritatively, ‘completely.’

Somewhere from the far distance there sounded a muted bellow. ‘Right!’ said Clinker hastily. ‘Tell her I’ll be in touch – soon!’ And with a peremptory clearing of throat he rang off.

I returned to the study feeling vaguely pleased that by effecting a rapprochement between the bishop and Mrs C. I had made modest contribution to the cause of tiddlywinks and the securing of the Bracknell Cup. It was gratifying too to think that each would once more be enjoying the other’s company and benefiting from the pleasure. For a short while I sat immersed in these rosy speculations.

And then of course I thought of Ingaza and the rosiness promptly withered. Bloody man – was he really serious about our visit to France? Foolish question, it was virtually a fait accompli! I sighed, got up and went to the bookcase. My old school atlas was on the top shelf. I took it down and searched for the Auvergne. Always as well to know where you are going, I thought gloomily.

For half an hour or so I immersed myself in the contours and place names of that mountainous region. ‘Wild, volcanic, mist-ridden …’ ran the accompanying text, ‘a land of tumbling waterfalls, brooding cliffs, forested ravines and primitive legend. Indeed, rumour has it that wolves still roam its perilous crags – but such tales are unlikely to daunt the modern wayfarer …’ Oh no? I thought grimly. Trust Nicholas to drag us into this Shangri-la!

I remembered the diary March had shown me with Elizabeth’s scathing allusion to the Folie and its ‘dark and sinister’ setting, and my gloom deepened. One bleak thought invariably leads to another: and the lowering face of the Curé of Taupinière came into my mind. Just the companion needed for such a venture! I cursed Ingaza again and, pouring a small restorative nightcap, reflected wryly, and not for the first time, that it was something I had brought entirely upon myself … Yes, the Fotherington Folly was aptly named! I closed the atlas, stretched, and prepared for an early night.