Marrying Off Mother (23 page)

She paused and gave a tiny sob.

‘Unfortunately, the Reverend Mother didn't see it this way. I was most distressed, for she was considerably shocked. She felt that not only had I done something terrible because I was a nun, but that I had led Michel into temptation. She did not seem to realize that it was God's plan and nothing I could say would alter her opinion. So I was expelled from the Order.'

‘You weren't!' I said, incredulous.

‘Yes, Gerry, it was such a cruel thing to do,' said Jean, heavily.

‘However,' said Sister Claire, wiping her eyes, ‘Michel was staunchly with me. I still do not think we are wrong. A gift given by God cannot be bad, especially if it is used for good purposes. I believe that God gave me the ability to . . . to . . . to gamble in order to help the children. I was determined not to go against His wishes . . . it seemed to me it would be a sin. So, through a second-hand dealer, I bought Miss Booth-Wycherly's clothes from the convent — because it was obvious that it was her clothes that the Almighty wanted me to wear — and I went on gambling. When I had raised a significant sum of money, I sent a cheque to the Mother Superior, saying it was money from God. She sent the cheque back saying that, in the eyes of the Almighty, it would be like accepting money from prostitution. For days I was so distraught that poor Michel was at his wits' end. You understand? Here I had an enormous sum of money which God had shown me how to earn and what purpose to put it to, and now I was being defeated. It was then that Michel had his brilliant idea. Mother Superior, of course, knew my name and where I had the bank account, so any money coming from that source would be refused by her. So, we decided to open a new bank account in Michel's name, so the money would be accepted. Of course, he had no name, poor dear, because . . . because . . . well, because. So we had to find a new one.'

She leaned forward, her eyes blazing.

‘It's such
fun
to be able to choose your own name. All of us have our names wished on us by our parents. But to be able to choose — why, it's like being born again.'

‘So what name did he choose?' I asked.

Sister Claire looked at me in wide-eyed astonishment.

‘Why, Booth-Wycherly, of course,' she said.

I stared at her lovely face for a moment and then I started to laugh. Jean and Melanie joined me, for the jest was rich. Soon, incited by our laughter, but not completely understanding it, Sister Claire and Michel joined us.

As we laughed, I am sure that somewhere in that terra incognita we call Heaven, Miss Booth-Wycherly was laughing too.

S
he came flying down the platform wearing an elegant blue tweed suit and a blue tam-o'shanter that made her ultramarine eyes look twice their size.

‘Darling, I'm here. It's me, Ursula,' she cried out, as she dodged like a rugger player round people, baggage and porters. She flung herself into my arms, fastened her lovely mouth on mine and indulged in the loud buzzing noise she made whenever her lips made contact with mine. All the men on the platform stared at me with envy and all the women stared at Ursula with hatred as she was so radiant and lovely.

‘Darling,' she said at last, removing her mouth, ‘I missed you most
dreadfully.'

‘But I only saw you the day before yesterday,' I protested, trying to disentangle myself from her vice-like grip.

‘Yes, but darling, it was such a
long
yesterday,' she said and kissed me once more. ‘Oh darling, to be with you in London in the spring. How scrumptious,' she said.

‘Where's your luggage?' I asked.

‘The porter's bringing it,' she said, pointing down the platform to where an extremely elderly porter was struggling with four large suitcases and a hatbox and a huge brass cage containing a grey parrot.

‘What the hell have you brought a parrot for?' I asked, filled with alarm.

‘Darling, his name is Moses and he talks beautifully, even though he does use a lot of bad language. I bought him off a sailor, so I suppose the sailor taught him. You know how uncouth sailors are, when they're not being captains or admirals. I'm sure Nelson never swore. I mean, he might have said the odd damn when he lost his arm and his eye, but I think that was permissible, don't you?'

As usual, when coming in contact with my favourite girlfriend, I began to feel a sense of unreality creeping over me.

‘But what do you want a parrot for? You can't keep him at the hotel.'

‘Don't be silly, darling, Claridge's keep anything for you. He's a present for the Reverend Penge, who's very sick, poor dear.'

My mind reeled. This was obviously yet another of Ursula's charitable deeds which always caused disaster, and I was caught up in the middle of it. Leaving the subject of the parrot for a moment I looked at her mountain of suitcases and the hatbox.

‘Do you really need all that luggage?' I enquired. ‘Or are you planning to stay in London permanently?'

‘Don't be silly, darling, that's only for three days and I knew you wanted me to look nice,' she said. ‘Why, I've scarcely brought
anything,
only the bare essentials. After all, you don't want me to go about nude, do you?'

‘I refuse to reply to that question for fear of being incriminated,' I said.

We arrived at the taxi rank, the luggage was stowed and Moses in his cage was installed in the back. As he was doing this, the porter was unwise enough to say ‘Pretty Polly' to Moses, who, with a clarity of diction I have rarely heard equalled in a parrot, told the porter where he should go and what he should do to himself when he got there, both suggestions geographically and biologically impossible.

‘Do you think this parrot is a wise gift to give a reverend gentleman in frail health?' I asked my beautiful companion as the taxi started in the direction of Claridge's.

Ursula turned her magnetic blue eyes on me in puzzlement.

‘But of course,' she said, ‘because it talks.'

‘Well, I know it talks,' I said. ‘It's what it says that worries me.'

As if on cue, Moses opened his beak and spoke again.

‘Oooh Charlie boy, oh let's do it again, Charlie boy. Oh I do love a cuddle. Heh, heh, heh, there's nothing like a cuddle.'

‘You see what I mean,' I said. ‘Do you think your kind gesture is wise?'

‘Well, I'll have to tell you about poor old Reverend Penge,' said Ursula. ‘He was the vicar of Portel-cum-Hardy, a tiny village near where we live and he got himself into terrible trouble with the choir.'

‘You mean a mixed choir, or just boys?' I asked.

‘No, no, they were just boys,' she said. ‘Well, I mean nobody would have worried if it had been just one teeny-weeny choirboy, but naturally when it came to a whole choir the villagers got up in arms. As they said — and I think quite rightly — there is a limit. Enough's enough.'

‘How big was the choir?'

‘Oh, I think about ten but I'm not sure,' she said. ‘But I thought the vicar was a very nice man and they should not have blackballed him from the Church.'

‘Is that what they did?' I asked, fascinated.

‘Yes,' she said, a trifle uncertainly, ‘or maybe because the Church is so pure they whiteballed him. I'm not sure. Anyway, poor dear, he's living in one room somewhere off the King's Road and he wrote me the most pathetic letter saying how ill he was and how he had no one to talk to, so that is why I bought him a parrot.'

‘But of course,' I said, resignedly. ‘What better present for a whiteballed vicar than a foul-mouthed parrot.'

‘It was the only thing,' said Ursula. ‘After all, I couldn't very well bring him a choirboy, now could I? Do be sensible, darling.'

I sighed.

‘Why are you staying at Claridge's and not at my hotel?' I asked.

‘I don't like the hotel you stay in, darling. One of the waiters smells of cod-liver oil and besides Daddy always stays at Claridge's — it's like the pub round the corner,' she said.

Moses ruffled his feathers and vouchsafed something to us.

‘Get your pants down, get your pants down, let's have a peek,' he said.

‘Don't you think that perhaps a small, inarticulate choirboy would have been preferable?' I asked.

‘Don't be silly, darling. Anyway, he could go to prison if it was inarticulate.'

‘If who was inarticulate?' I asked, bewildered.

‘The choirboy. It's called reducing a miner,' she said. ‘Although I've never understood what a miner's got to do with choirboys since choirboys are choirboys and miners work digging coal.'

As usual in a conversation with Ursula, I was left in a state of such puzzlement that it was best to drop the whole subject and start again.

‘When are we going to get rid of Moses?' I asked.

‘Moses knows,' said Moses. ‘Moses knows — heh, heh, heh — drop your pants, there's a good boy.'

Tomorrow morning. I thought we'd take him first thing,' she said.

‘Moses likes a bit of bum,' said Moses.

‘I still think that with this parrot's preoccupation with sex it is an unwise gift,' I said. ‘You might have the Reverend Penge scooting down to St Paul's Cathedral in search of more choirboys, incited by Moses's licentiousness.'

‘Go stuff yourself,' said Moses, fixing me with a glittering eye.

‘Darling, the Reverend Penge can't go scooting anywhere,' Ursula explained patiently, ‘he's old and very fragile. He can't go pursuing choirboys. He can't run as fast as they can. They would have to be brought to him. I mean, of course, one wouldn't want that, but you know what I mean.'

‘Yes,' I said. ‘I''m only surprised you didn't get him a sheepdog.'

‘A sheepdog!' she said in amazement. ‘Whatever for?'

‘For rounding up the choirboys,' I explained.

Ursula looked at me severely.

‘You know, darling, there are times when you don't seem to take life seriously enough.'

I gazed at her four suitcases, her hatbox and at Moses in his cage and then gazed deeply into her lovely eyes.

‘I'm sorry,' I said contritely, ‘I'll try being less frivolous in future.'

‘That's right, darling,' she said, if you try, you can take life as seriously as I do.'

‘I will do my very best,' I said.

She linked her arm through mine and gave me a brief kiss.

‘Darling, isn't it going to be divine,' she said dreamily. ‘Three days in London with you — how truly scrumptious.'

‘Moses likes a bit of bum,' said Moses.

‘Darling, I do see what you mean,' said Ursula thoughtfully. ‘He does seem terribly preoccupied with bits of the body.'

‘Don't worry,' I said, ‘I expect the Reverend Penge was too. I'm sure they will get on splendidly.'

‘You know, you are a comfort to me,' she said, snuggling up and gazing at me with her huge eyes. ‘Whenever I'm in doubt about something, I say to myself, “What would Gerry have done?'”

‘And then you do the opposite,' I said.

‘No, darling, you're being modest,' she said. ‘Everything I do is based on your advice.'

Seeing that Ursula left behind her, in her efforts to help people, a trail of carnage worse than a dinosaur in a china shop, this was scant praise.

‘In fact,' she went on, ‘there was a point when I was seriously thinking about falling in love with you, but I decided not to.'

‘Good heavens!' I exclaimed. ‘When did I get this reprieve?'

‘Well, it was some time ago, on the beach under the pier when we were swimming and you said that I'd got a bottom like a cherry stone,' she said. ‘It was very hurtful.'

‘I'm sorry if I hurt your feelings, sweetheart, but you know cherubs were painted by all the best painters in all the best positions and looked delightful.'

‘What sort of painters?' she asked suspiciously.

‘Well, all the most famous medieval ones,' I said, wishing I had not brought up the subject.

‘You mean like Bottomcelli?' she asked.

‘Yes,' I said, ‘he painted the most beautiful bottoms in the business, hence his name, and he would have been captivated by yours.'

‘Really, darling? How wonderful. It's nice to know there's one man in the world who appreciates your bottom,' she said. ‘Come to think of it, it's not often that your bottom gets adulated. I suppose it's because it's always
under
you. It's all to do with modesty. I suppose that's why they say hiding your bum under a bushel, because if you have a behind like a Cherubum you don't want it displayed to all and sultry.'

it's a very old English saying,' I said resignedly.

I had once thought of buying Ursula a dictionary, but discarded the idea when I found out she could not spell.

When we reached Claridge's, our taxi door was smartly opened by the immaculately top-hatted doorman who hooked a white-gloved finger into the brass loop at the top of the cage and wafted it out. It became immediately obvious that Moses had been enjoying the taxi ride and took grave exception to its being interrupted. The doorman lifted the parrot cage the better to view the bird and was just going to say smilingly, ‘Pretty Polly,' when Moses fixed him with a brilliant stare and said, with searing malevolence, ‘You bastard son of a ditch-delivered whore!' The words were spoken with such venom and clarity that the doorman reeled back as if he had stepped on the wrong end of a rake.