The Echoing Grove (3 page)

‘Anything exciting inside?’ asked Dinah, stopping.

‘There’s an effigy: the Lord of the Manor prone beside his wife, and twelve midgets kneeling under them. Jacobean. Rather fascinating. Come in and look at it. There’s just enough light.’

‘Sit,’ said Dinah to the dog in the porch. He sat. ‘He’ll stay put till I come out,’ she said.

They examined the effigy, the memorial brasses, ancient and modern, in the walls, the Tudor font, the Edwardian altar cloth, the brass-bound Bible on the lectern, the parish notices pinned up inside the door. It was chilly in the church. They came out again. The dog was no longer sitting in the porch.

Whistling and calling, Dinah went this way and that, between the graves and then behind the church. She was astonished, and said so. She said several times that he had never done such a thing before.

‘Yes,’ agreed Madeleine. ‘You told me how obedient he was.’

‘He must have seen something,’ said Dinah with decision.

‘Perhaps a ghost?’

On the heels of this suggestion a shape of silence, planing stealthily from nowhere, crossed the churchyard: a huge cream-coloured owl. Ravished, startled, they watched the apparition wave up and down, up and down, with rapid wing beats, low above the terraces; then, leaving a long wake of deeper silence, swoop away out over the river.

‘He’s always here,’ murmured Madeleine, ‘about this time of day.’

‘Listen!’

A medley of disagreeable noises broke upon their ears: whimperings, maniacal moans, hoarse growls and chuckles: then
staccato crescendo
a volley of imperious barks. Darting forth, chin out, in the direction of the back of the tower, Dinah said madly: ‘He must have seen a badger.’

But it was a rat. Down in the ditch beneath the churchyard wall; half curled on its side, as if reclining in dreadful ease, and facing its opponent: flea-bitten, sodden, its belly blown; and all of it watchful, still, grey as damnation.

‘
Now
what do we do?’ said Dinah, unsteady.

‘We go away,’ said Madeleine. ‘We simply go away. He’ll deal with it, won’t he? It’s cornered, isn’t it? He’s a sporting dog, isn’t he?’

The dog continued to tread the ditch, forward and back as if setting to partners in The Lancers, sobbing, trembling from head to stern.

‘It’s his first rat,’ said Dinah. She lit a cigarette, puffed, let it fall to the ground.

‘Is he
frightened
of
it?’ asked Madeleine. ‘He seems frightened of it. No wonder.’ Again she said: ‘We’d better go away.’

But horror-struck, they continued to stand watching.

‘It’s too big,’ said Dinah. She swallowed; then making her voice resolute, she croaked out: ‘Good boy, Gwilym. Good boy. At it. Good boy. Go on. Attaboy.’

Thus encouraged the dog pounced, caught the rat by the nape, shook it, dropped it, caught it, dropped it again.

‘There,’ breathed Dinah, pale as the marble angel adorning a Victorian tomb beside her. ‘That’s got it. He knows how …’

But the rat began to run along the bottom of the ditch, blood on its back, its tail gliding sinuous, obscene, over the matted ivy and dead leaves. The dog went after it; and after the dog went the frantic voice of Dinah, repeating on a full chest note:

‘Kill it! Kill it! Kill it!’

‘This is devilish,’ said Madeleine.

She hurried to the gate, looked up and down the road. Help, help! … But help there was none. Dusk, opalescent, was beginning to enfold the empty pastoral scene. Behind her, hysteria now clamoured from a different direction. Loath to look back, she looked, and saw Dinah staring through some spiked iron rails enclosing a large square block of monumental masonry, wiping her face with her handkerchief. The dog was charging these rails with fatuous bravado, plunging his nose between the bars, and barking without intermission.

‘What’s happening now?’ called Madeleine with a hint of threat.

‘It’s got inside this damned …’ Emotional, indignant, Dinah’s voice broke off.

Madeleine walked slowly back and joined her; with an effort forced her eyes to focus once more upon the object. It was huddled just inside the railings, watching the dog with absolute concentration. Dinah said in a weak voice:

‘It’s been
fighting
him. He’s done his best. He can’t finish it off. Look at its eyes, just look.’

‘We must leave it,’ repeated Madeleine.

‘We can’t. It’s all mauled—don’t you see? We
cannot.
It’s got to be killed.’

Suddenly the creature reared up on its hind legs behind the bars, teeth bared, jaws wide, and started to screech. Beneath its cursing throat, its midget hands hung pink, useless, as if in supplication: a shock for all. Again the dog plunged. It made a snake’s dart; and he sprang backwards with a yelp, nipped in the lip.

‘It isn’t fair!’ cried Dinah, grabbing him by the collar.

All at once the rat abandoned its point of vantage, turned its back on them. They watched it creep along the side of the tomb; stop; then, obscurely driven, yet as if with the terrible deliberation, the final fatal calculation of a duellist, emerge from between the bars on the farther side, and slither off on a slow track through the soaked grass. It was badly hurt.

‘God!’ muttered Madeleine. ‘I can’t stand much more of this. Of all the bloody—beastly—bungling …’ She looked with raging disgust at the incompetent animal, quiet now in Dinah’s grasp. Blood and foam flecked his muzzle: he whimpered and wagged his tail in a bewildered way.

‘He’s not a terrier, he’s a sheepdog,’ explained Dinah, deadly gentle. ‘They
fought
down in that ditch—you didn’t see. It went for him again and again—
screeching.
He’s hurt. Rat bites can be very poisonous.’

‘You’re telling me,’ said Madeleine. ‘Does that rat look to you diseased? It does to me. We’d better hurry back and ring up the vet—though I doubt if we’d get him on a Saturday evening. At least we’d better make for the Jeyes Fluid as soon as possible. Immerse him totally, and then ourselves.’

‘I doubt,’ said Dinah, ‘If you’ve incurred any risk worth mentioning. But if you’re anxious, the best thing would be for me to take him straight back to London. What are the trains?’

Incurring risk to the full, she pulled up a handful of long grass and carefully wiped his muzzle. The branches of the ancient yew under which they stood enlaced them with serpentine malevolence. Turning a nasty colour, the peaceful landscape withdrew itself and left them on an island where any movement might mean electrocution. From this wired stronghold they looked out and beheld the blot, the poison-container, lying dark on the grass, like a broken flask, between two mounds. Then it moved a bit, not much … And still no rescuer came by, no whistling rustic youth or shrewd old labourer expert in, indifferent to slaughter. They were weak women in extremis, abandoned by their natural protectors.

‘Isn’t there a
man
about?’ cried Dinah, suddenly breaking to voice all this. ‘Are there
no
men in this village? Can’t you fetch your
gardener
?’

‘He’s seventy-three,’ said Madeleine. ‘Besides, he’s gone to the football match. I think everybody has.’

In silence they walked together to the gate and looked once more up, down, far and near. Not a soul in sight. A sigh came out of the poplars and a few bright discs spun down and settled round their feet.

‘Or the Vicar?’ muttered Dinah, scarcely attempting to disguise appeal.

‘No use. He’s got lumbago. And even if he hadn’t, he wouldn’t.’

‘There seems to be a boy down there by the bridge. Should we run for him? He’s a country boy. He’d probably enjoy it.’

They strained their eyes in the direction of the old toll house, in whose square of garden a small figure could be seen, moving among white fowls.

‘Stanley Higgs,’ said Madeleine reflectively. ‘I scarcely think so. He’s only six; and not allowed to play with rough children.’

There was a pause.

‘Ah well …’ said Dinah. ‘It may be dead by now.’

‘I should think it must be.’

But they did not expect it ever to be dead.

‘I’m going to see,’ said Dinah with sudden resolution. ‘Hold him.’

She handed the lead to Madeleine and strode towards the church. The dog sat down on his haunches and trembled piteously; and after a moment Madeleine said: ‘There, there,’ and stroked his dishonoured head. She saw Dinah questing with caution within the rat belt; after a while she stopped dead close to the church door and stood with her head poked forward.

‘Found it?’ called Madeleine.

‘Yes.’

‘Dead?’

There was no reply. Madeleine walked forward and stood at a little distance, near enough to see the shape at Dinah’s foot.

‘Nearly dead,’ said Dinah slowly. ‘I think its back’s broken. Give me your stick.’

Madeleine handed her a crook-handled Alpenstock carved with edelweiss, saying: ‘You’ll never do it with that.’

‘Keep Gwilym away. Don’t look. On your life, don’t look.’

Madeleine shut her eyes, gripped Gwilym, turned her back; and after a few moments heard a sick thread of voice remark: ‘I cannot do it. I can’t take life.’

Come here and hold your dog,’ said Madeleine, still with her back turned. ‘I’ll do it.’

At once Dinah obeyed, saying shakily: ‘It looked at me.’

‘Oh
Christ
…!’

‘Madeleine, you can’t. Or can you? You know you can’t.’

‘I can. I can and I
will.
’
She examined the stick and let it drop. ‘This is the wrong shape. And much too light. Wait, I must hunt.’

She walked away, disappearing behind the tower, and presently returned with a large garden spade. ‘The sexton’s, I suppose,’ she said. ‘Propped against the vestry door. Careless. I think his grandson uses it to dig up worms with at week-ends.’

‘Worms?’

‘For bait.’

‘In the cemetery?’

‘A lot happens in this cemetery. Now keep back, for God’s sake.’

She forced herself to get close enough to the rat to examine its potentialities. Stained, chewed, defeated—a piece of monstrous garbage thrown away. Not moving any more, but visibly breathing. Then suddenly it moved. On the uttermost fighting verge of life it turned its head sideways and looked at her, measured her, with brilliant fixity …
No, no, no, no, no, no
…
Strike on the back of its head, don’t waver. ‘This is gross, this is
gross
,’
she said aloud. Now. Death and
death
to it. She lifted the spade, aimed, brought the flat of it crashing down. The rat reared up full stretch in a supreme convulsion, as if about to spring. But it was done for. It rolled over, twitching. Immediately its open eyes began to film.

Dragging her gaze away, she turned to see Dinah by the gate, her back averted, busy securing the dog’s lead to the post.

‘It’s dead,’ she called; and at once, with automatic briskness, Dinah turned and advanced to stand beside her.

‘I suppose the twitching is just reflex action.’ Dinah’s tone was clinical. Then, appreciatively: ‘Good for you. I never thought you’d be able to.’

‘I do a lot of things now I couldn’t have done once.’

‘My God, it was brave,’ said Dinah, extending the scope of decent tribute.

‘It certainly had reserves,’ said Madeleine. ‘The worst came last. It didn’t turn to best.’

She fished for her handkerchief and wiped her mouth and forehead; and after a glance at her, Dinah seized the spade, saying:

‘Here, give me that.’

Looking away, Madeleine said sharply:

‘What are you going to do?’

‘Bury it.’

‘Not here.’

‘No.’ Her gaze travelled round, irresolute.

‘Best thing,’ said Madeleine, still looking into the distance, ‘would be to take it down to the river and throw it in.’

‘Far the best. Perhaps if you feel up to it, you wouldn’t mind waiting here and holding Gwilym. Or rather, start walking on home—I should.’

‘Well, I’ll go on and make tea. We need it.’

Leading the dejected animal, Madeleine went slowly down the path, through the gate, and started up the road. Presently she stopped, looked back. The hampered figure of Dinah could be seen emerging from the gate and veering in the opposite direction. She held the spade straight out in front of her: an effort. From it the tail hung down, swinging. Like one moving in a barbaric rite of dedication towards some altar she stepped onward, onward, and disappeared below the brow of the slope. Tractable, but grief-stricken, the dog began to cry.

‘All right,’ said Madeleine kindly. She strolled back on her tracks and stood leaning against the churchyard wall. She turned and let her eyes travel over the mounds and memorials; to the spot; then upwards along the tower’s spare grey pure-shafted column, to its light-washed crown; to its arched upper window deep-set beneath crenellations, its one round turret, its weather-cock and flag-pole all supernaturally designed in the last sun’s last symbol-making glow. Keep watching it, she told herself. Be empty. Rest in peace.

Dusk had perceptibly deepened before Dinah was seen to be marching briskly up the slope again, the bier across her shoulder. From some distance she waved and nodded, calling greeting and encouragement to Gwilym.

‘It’s after you!’ called Madeleine.

She checked a glance behind her, brandished the spade.

‘I won’t ask for details,’ said Madeleine when she reached her side.

‘No.’ She shuddered.

‘Well, that’s that.’

‘We shan’t recover all at once.’ Dinah lit a cigarette in the manner of one taking calm stock of past catastrophe.

‘There’s nothing like a dog for ruining a pleasant walk,’ said Madeleine, bending to remove the lead. ‘Don’t let him lick your hand for God’s sake.’

‘I suppose you’ve got disinfectants.’ Dinah patted his ribs, adding: ‘He did his best. Brave boy, you did your best. Your very, very best.’

‘We all did,’ said Madeleine. ‘Our very, very best.’

They looked behind them at the now tenebrous graveyard spreading yet one more fold of everlasting night upon its shadow people. Dinah took a breath, as if to speak; said nothing; and Madeleine continued: