Bone Idle (6 page)

I did indeed, and was rapidly working out how on earth I should manage to make the switch. It hadn’t occurred to me that the thing might be kept under glass – a detail that Nicholas had helpfully omitted to mention. Clinker’s presence was also a dratted encumbrance. However, I made all the right noises and peered closely at the glass top, trying as it were to get a closer look.

‘Just a moment,’ murmured the proud owner, ‘I’ll take it out.’ And touching a knob at the side he slid back the glass panel, took out the little pig and placed it on a side table.

‘I like the green eyes,’ observed Clinker appreciatively. ‘Do they glow in the dark?’

‘Certainly not,’ snapped Claude. ‘It’s not a lighthouse, you know!’

‘May I pick it up?’ I asked.

‘By all means.’

I made a great show of examining the object, and ran my finger down its back and then, unobtrusively, along its underside. It seemed perfectly smooth. I tried again, this time with my nail – and yes, Nicholas was right: the ridge was there! A mere hairline in the bone, but definitely there. It was the real thing all right!

I continued to regard it solemnly, still desperately wondering how I was going to effect the change. Then miraculously Clinker exclaimed, ‘I say, Claude, is that a genuine Toledo dagger over there?’ And together they moved towards one of the display cabinets. In a trice I plunged my hand into my jacket pocket, fingers poised to grip the replica …

But even as I did so I knew the act to be futile, that my hand would grasp nothing but the coat lining: for the Singer’s glove box had flashed before my eyes, and I realized with the certainty of doom that I had forgotten to remove the replacement. Such had been my elation in finding a parking spot that all other thoughts had vanished, and I had strolled blithely up to Blenkinsop’s flat with the object of my mission still stowed in its place of safe-keeping!

With hand stuffed pointlessly in my pocket, I heard my father’s voice intoning, ‘Head full of sea air, Francis – nothing but air!’ He had been right.

In helpless dismay I gazed down at the idol while Claude instructed Clinker in the intricacies of Toledo dagger patterns. What could I do? Request another visit? But why on earth should that seem necessary? Make some lame excuse and rush downstairs to the car, get the idol and try to re-enact proceedings? Impossible. Return to the flat disguised as a plumber or tax inspector? … These and other absurdities raced through my mind as I stood there bleak and wretched, cursing myself and cursing Nicholas. Finally I slumped down on the sofa bored out of my mind and longing to return to Molehill. The other two prosed on in front of the cabinets, and I shut my eyes …

Suddenly I heard Clinker saying, ‘Oh, I think that’s quite all right. No trouble at all, dear fellow. As a matter of fact I was going to ask Oughterard here if he wouldn’t mind giving me a lift to Victoria. I have rather important business to attend to there, but there’s plenty of time and we could easily drop it off.’ And then turning to me, ‘That won’t take you out of your way, will it, Francis?’

‘No, I shouldn’t think so,’ I replied vaguely. ‘Er, sorry, where are we going?’

Clinker sighed. ‘To drop off Claude’s pig at the jeweller’s – it’s got an eye loose. Didn’t you hear!’

‘The right eye, is it?’ I asked absently.

‘Well, as a matter of fact it is!’ exclaimed Blenkinsop. ‘How did you know that?’

I had of course remembered Ingaza’s tale of Beano’s wife hurling it at the fender with the resultant dislodging of one of the emeralds. Reset it may have been, but the damage was done, and a hundred and fifty years later it had presumably worked itself loose again.

‘Er, I …’

‘Sharp eyes, that’s what you’ve got, my dear chap. A fellow enthusiast, I can see that!’ And he nodded appreciatively.

I smiled modestly and gave thanks for major mercies. To think that, after everything, the pig was going to drop into my lap just like that!

But not quite – for my offer to carry the package had been pre-empted by Clinker who seemed intent on taking the box himself, assuring Claude of his utmost care in the matter. Thus somehow, between our departure from the flat and arrival at the jeweller’s, it would have to be detached from the bishop’s grasp.

We said our goodbyes to Claude, and with Clinker carrying the package and me pondering logistics, made our way downstairs and out into the street. As we went I noticed that in addition to the pig in its box, Clinker was carrying a dark mackintosh. I recalled Mrs Carruthers’ reference to his incognito garb, and wondered if the ‘important business’ near Victoria involved a few rounds of surreptitious tiddlywinks.

However, such speculation was cut short for I had something else to think about: the weather. It had started to rain. Clinker gave a tut of exasperation, stopped in his tracks and began struggling to put on his raincoat. With the box grasped in one hand, he was having difficulties. The rain was suddenly pounding the pavement and I leaped to assist.

‘Here, give me the box, sir … and I tell you what, if you stand under this portico I’ll run on and get the car. Shan’t be a second!’ And not waiting for a reply I rushed round the corner clutching the precious package.

I scrambled into the Singer, wrenched open the glove box, and with frantic fumbling switched the two objects. I had just done this when a thought struck me – ‘God almighty! I’ve forgotten the damned eye!’ The original pig’s emerald orb had worked loose, hence our visit to the restorer. Its fake counterpart, to be eventually returned to Claude, would have to show similar damage! I looked around wildly for some gouging instrument. None came to sight or mind. Rain poured, sweat oozed. And then suddenly I remembered – under the dashboard, Pa’s Swiss army knife! He had foisted it upon me just before the final hospital sojourn, and cluttered with other problems and impedimenta, I had left it there long since forgotten … I took the pig, seized the knife, and attacked the eye. Then executing a sprawling three-point turn, swung the car round and headed back to the sheltering Clinker.

‘Most thoughtful, Oughterard. Thank you,’ he exclaimed, stuffing himself into the passenger seat. ‘Can’t stand this erratic weather, you never know what to expect.’

I grunted sympathetically and passed him the bogus pig. ‘You’d better hang on to this, sir. Claude Blenkinsop would take a dim view if anything happened to it!’ And I laughed wryly.

‘Hmm,’ he replied, ‘Claude Blenkinsop is an old woman – always has been. And why he has to live in an apartment without a lift I cannot imagine. As to this pig, can’t see what all the fuss is about. I’ve seen more riveting things in Woolworths!’

We drove briskly until my passenger pointed out that we were fast approaching Paddington Station. ‘Rather disorientated, aren’t we, Oughterard?’ he observed. ‘I think you will find Victoria approximately a mile
south
from here.’

In the face of interesting gestures from cab drivers, I managed to turn the car and join the cortège moving in the opposite direction. It was the rush hour, and reaching Victoria a frustrating business; but we eventually got there, and to my surprise had little difficulty in finding the jeweller’s, which was tucked away in a corner behind Westminster Cathedral.

Making a rather laboured joke about entering upon popish precincts, Clinker levered himself out of the car, and clutching the pig box disappeared into the shop. It would, I suppose, have been courteous to offer to go in myself; but my companion had seemed perfectly happy to complete the mission. And in any case, I reflected, the less I was seen to have anything to do with things the better!

Five minutes later the bishop returned to the car and in imperious tones directed me to the Vauxhall Bridge Road. About halfway down he suddenly said, ‘All right, you can stop here now, Oughterard. I’ll walk the rest of the way. The – ah – office is only just round the corner.’ And barely waiting for me to draw up, he was out on the pavement muttering thanks and buttoning his mackintosh; and then with a vague wave in my direction started to walk purposefully towards one of the side streets. As he went he turned up his coat-collar and pulled from his pocket a sort of crumpled black fedora. He crammed it on, and looking like a squat Mafioso, quickened his stride and disappeared out of sight.

I was about to start the engine when, glancing in the mirror, I saw a car draw up a few yards behind me. The passenger door was flung open: and swathed in furs and furbelows, out stepped Mrs Carruthers. I had been right after all!

The noise started immediately she put foot to pavement, as with whoops and cackles she struggled to prise from the back seat a female companion, who eventually emerged into the air as might a grey porpoise. The driver also emerged – one my father would doubtless have described as ‘rather a common little man’, sporting a small moustache and a very loud check jacket. He was carrying a wicker hamper. The porpoise lady was also carrying something: a large shiny wooden box with brass corners. Mrs Carruthers carried nothing except a tightly furled pink umbrella with an enormous spike. Chatting and clattering, the three of them tottered towards the corner around which Clinker had disappeared.

I looked at the hamper, the wooden box, and my watch. Nearly six o’clock –
l’heure bleue
: the cocktail hour. Obviously time for tiddlywinks and tequilas!

Thus with my mind filled with visions of genteel riot and roguery, I left the Vauxhall Bridge Road and braced myself for the Brighton run.

As I had predicted, the vicar started making preparations to go up to London. Clearly the Brighton type had tightened the screws and our addled master was now once more in the role of reluctant lackey. I cannot say that his discomfort would have bothered me unduly – the risible blunders of humans deserving of some small penance. However, in this particular case the penance would not be confined to F.O. If his project aborted
we
should be involved, and that was not something that I found amusing. Life was precarious enough as it was without the vicar’s antics fouling things further.

As I pondered the matter I felt a sulk hovering and began to make my way to the holly bush where I settle at such times. However, my path was blocked by Bouncer. Last seen he had been skulking around the tool shed, but he had evidently observed me emerging from the rhododendrons and was now standing barring my way and panting loudly.

‘I say, Maurice,’ he gasped, ‘you’ll never guess – he’s cleared away my bones and blanket. It’s not right!’

I observed that there were very few things of F.O.’s doing which were right, and would he kindly mind removing himself from my path. He said that he did mind actually, as he had some urgent things to communicate and would appreciate my advice. I am of course renowned for giving good advice and can rarely resist an appeal to my helpful sagacity. Thus I agreed to listen to the dog’s complaints. These were not easy to follow but seemed to involve the church, the vestry, the Briggs woman, and some unpleasant-sounding ham bones.

‘… so I had gone to all the trouble of making this cosy kennel,’ he gabbled, ‘and put all my stuff there, even the blanket, and it was a really good little den. I’d been going there for weeks, and then F.O. messed it all up and locked the door. It’s not fair!’

‘Nothing is. Besides, you never told
me
about it!’ I replied irritably.

‘Thought you would probably cut up rough,’ he explained.

‘Nonsense,’ I said. ‘I am not in the habit of “cutting up rough”, though doubtless I would have questioned the wisdom of the venture.’

‘That’s what I said – cut up rough.’

I let that pass, and instead asked how on earth he had managed to transport the blanket unobserved. ‘Must have been quite cumbersome. Did you do it at night?’

‘Didn’t do it at all. It was O’Shaughnessy. He’s got a bigger mouth than me. Besides, it was his idea in the first place. Said I would be as snug as a bug next to the hot pipes and only an eejit would think of looking there. A “darlin’ little hidey hole” he called it.’ I might have known. Trust the setter to be at the bottom of things!

‘Well, nice while it lasted, I daresay,’ I observed. ‘But you’ll have to find another place now – though why you can’t just stick to the crypt I do not know!’

‘Ah, but you see, Maurice,’ he replied solemnly, ‘in life it’s always good to ring the changes.’

And having cast that philosophical pearl, he went sniffing off among the bushes.

Abandoning my sulk, I promptly called him back. ‘Your bones matter little in the general scheme of things,’ I observed sternly. ‘They are merely ciphers which –’

‘What scheme?’ he asked.

‘The Brighton type’s scheme to manipulate the vicar and destroy our chances of an easy life – not to mention the police putting their hulking hoofs in everything! It is all going to be exceedingly tiresome.’ And I emitted one of my more ear-freezing miaows. The dog winced, but before he could bound off again, I remarked casually, ‘Anyway, he’s definitely going up to London and thence down to Brighton – and this time has no plans to take
you
on the outing.’ (I couldn’t resist mentioning that, as the dog gets cocky when given preferential treatment.)

‘What!’ he yelped. ‘What about my grub?’

‘There won’t be any,’ I said. And waited.

As anticipated, the reaction was violent and theatrical. Indeed, such was the volume that even the phlegmatic sparrows took flight, and I could hear the baby next door wailing in protest.

I suffered the drama for a while, and then raising my voice above the din let it be known that it was just one of my playful jests, and that of course F.O. would never go off without making the necessary arrangements, and that all was in hand for the dog’s culinary needs.

‘Yes, yes, but will I get my GRUB?’ he bellowed.

‘Yes, Bouncer, you will be fed, i.e. f-e-d, FED!’

‘Well, that’s all right then,’ he said. And promptly lay down and went fast asleep.