The Triple Goddess (94 page)

And,

‘Old King Cole was a merry old soul,

And a merry old soul was he;

He called for a light in the middle of the night

And went to the WC.

But the WC was occupied,

And so was the kitchen sink.

It had to be done, it had to be done,

So out of the window went his bum...’

It was a losing battle. ‘
Squittimus igitur
—toity-toity toot sweet,’ Dark announced to the room. And he faded, not as did Hamlet’s ghost on the crowing of the cock, but on the blowing of [his] horn like the dawn stranger with brown baked features in T.S. Eliot’s
Little Gidding
. The reverend left behind him a noxious envelope of air that curdled into a green cloud and rose to the ceiling, where the hogo hung in the shape of a repulsive gargoyle and dulled the already meagre wattage of the light.

The shuffle in the passage returned, and was followed by the sound of someone trying to enter without observing the protocol of first opening the door. After a lot of banging accompanied by guttural noises, the portal was flung open to admit a Bartholomew, the female of the species, carrying in one hand a rack of burnt toast and in the other the outer iron door-knob.

Mrs Bartholomew was indeed the drooling image of her husband. Her back was equally hunched from osteoporosis, and she dragged the same arthritic leg that had lost the pair so many three-legged races at the annual Asylum Games. She had the same scraping of platinum hair, beard, and habit of champing her gums while speaking the Bart! patois; which, though it might have passed for intelligent conversation in a Neanderthal cave, in the modern age put the pair in less than full communication with Sir Winston Churchill’s English-Speaking Peoples.

Surveying the door-knob contemptuously as if it were a needless extravagance, Mrs Bartholomew limped to the fireplace and tossed it into the pile of cinders and ashes that had accumulated there (on account of the fireplace not having been cleaned) amongst the beer can ring-pulls and other metallic objects that Dark used to retain heat and save on fuel. The jerky movement caused the burnt offerings in her other hand, recognizing kindred matter, also to fly into the grate. Picking them out, Mrs Bart’s arthritic and chilblained fingers then dropped them onto the hearth, from which they rolled onto the scrap of cord carpet underlay that did business as a rug, where they became coated in dog hair.

Unperturbed, Mrs Bart retrieved the pieces of toast a second time, brushed them off, replaced them in the rack, hauled her gimpy leg to the folding table where Father Fletcher took his meals, and set the rack down. Then, remembering the other part of her mission, she reached into the pouch of her filthy apron and withdrew a bundle of mail secured with a rubber band, which she placed on the table beside the coffee-pot.

Whatever else was subnormal about her, Mrs Bart’s sense of smell was unimpaired and it now asserted itself. Raising her nose like a questing hound to the stench, her face puckered with disgust and she dissolved into a fit of phlegmy coughing. As soon as she was somewhat recovered, she pinched her nostrils, rolled like a seaman on a heaving deck to the window, threw open the black metal frames, and hawked into the rhododendron that blocked the orphan light which had been deported to the Annexe’s plot. The freezing gusts of wind that were admitted made the Homebase coolie shade of the ceiling light swing and shed a layer of dust.

Then, satisfied that the noisome odour in the room would eventually dissipate, Mrs Bart withdrew, slamming the door behind her, and retired to her station in the kitchen.

Wishing to resume as quickly as possible the breakfast that nature’s call had interrupted, Dark was stymied by the lack of a means of ingress to his living room. So, after a minute of banging and kicking the knobless door, he retreated down the hall, turned side-on, tucked his chins into his neck, grasped the wrist of his folded leading arm and charged. The latch burst from the strike plate of the mortised jamb, and the reverend’s momentum carried him into the room, where he skidded on the drugget floor-covering that was cousin to the rug on the hearth, and fell on his backside.

When he got up he rubbed his nether regions, and stared in surprise at the thin grimy curtains flapping in the icy breeze and the ashes swirling in the fireplace draught. Grimly he closed the window, returned to the table and sat down. A veil of grey matter settled on every surface, including the shoulders of his garment where it blended with dandruff and woodworm dust from the doorway lintel. Picking up a piece of cold leathery toast and noticing something spread on it, after inspecting it more closely Dark cursed and tossed it over his shoulder.

In an attempt to restore his humour after the premature termination of his meal, and take his mind off the inadequacies of his servitors, Dark reached for the mail, removed the band and opened the first letter. He always enjoyed the colourful prose that his former parishioners continued, notwithstanding his self-retirement, to employ in reassuring him of their animosity towards him, who had once heaped such sacrilegious scorn upon their namby-pamby lives.

Receiving their abuse rather than fazing him afforded Dark much entertainment, his only entertainment. But he never replied to anyone for fear that the flagellant epistles might cease upon his correspondents sensing that the pleasure was mutual.

The format of the first envelope’s handwritten contents was familiar, although in an attempt to preserve the sender’s anonymity it had been printed in capital letters. There was a ragged black-edged hole where the signature had been appended in error and rubbed out; however Dark doubted not that the poor quality and dirtiness of the paper, the illiterate spelling, the erratic calligraphy, plus the absence of a stamp, identified the scrivener as one George Bentley. Bentley was an ancient who lived in a stone cottage with well-drawn water and garden privy—the size of George’s marrows were the envy of the village—up a long rutted track, where he heated his pot-bellied self and stove with wood that he cut and hauled
in tenebris
from an adjacent Christmas tree plantation, rendered sustainable by George’s electing not to celebrate Christmas.

Bentley was an ornery cove, who was always on the lookout for intruders on his property, especially those from the District Council who were staunch in their belief that he belonged in an old-people’s home. As a deterrent to unwanted visitors—Bentley did not issue invitations—he kept an antique fowling piece, which he discharged at whim and without discrimination as to target. What his critics attributed to senile dementia, and George to good marksmanship, in the past year alone he had bagged or winged three foxes, six sheep-worrying dogs, twenty-three cats, a loose horse on the bridle path, two burglars, a hang-glider, a parasailer, and the milkman.

Although no humans were killed, George’s one mate, a cousin in the coastal town, was in the habit of supplementing George’s pension by selling his horses to a French restaurant, the cats to a Chinese, and the dogs to an Indian. The fox concession was still open. That the bounty hunter was still able to blaze away with impunity he owed to his nephew, who was the local Justice of the Peace and a member of the National Front party; to the police station being so distant; and to the postman, who was as firearm averse as the milkman, for refusing to deliver George’s Court summonses.

The note from the gun-bold George Bentley was as stinging as the pellets in his home-made cartridges:

Dear pernishus pratt, BA(Equ.)=Batchler of HORSE’S Arse, FIRST CLASs—

piss off and leave us alone. You are a VERY pompuss parson And so say all of us.

Up yours,

Best regards,

[Messy hole]

Dark smiled and made a mental note to confide to his persecutor, the next time he might encounter him around and about, that, as a result of the most distressing letters he was receiving from some anonymous persecutor, his nerves were quite shattered and he feared that he would never be able to sleep again.

Next was a plain card inscribed with a quotation:

“The hungry sheep look up, and are not fed,

But swollen with wind, and the rank mist they draw,

Rot inwardly and foul contagion spread...”

      Milton,
Lycidas

Signed: The Rank and Foul, thanks to swollen stinky you, of your rank-and-file ex Congregation.

Dark was pleased with the endorsement, it was one that he might take to his grave and beyond as a testimonial to his effectiveness in administering to his flock.

Then came a circular, which listed various entertainments that the Social Committee, a subdivision of the Parish Council, had organized for the village’s Summer Fayre. It was hoped, it said, that everyone would contribute to the success of the occasion: the men by blacking out teeth and dressing as labourers and shepherds in smocks, shapeless hats and leggings, and carrying staves or crooks; and the women by coming as milkmaids and serving-wenches.

Dark yawned as he perused the list of activities, from archery to falconry to morris-dancing, and planned displays of such rural crafts and skills as corn dolly- and chair-making, coppicing, and thatching. There would be a hurdy-gurdy, a maypole, a tombola, a Punch and Judy show, a treasure hunt, a coconut shy, a tattoo parlour, a Bouncy Castle, and a Test Your Strength station. The reverend’s interest was piqued by the “Guess the Weight of Shire-horse Dung”; for which the butcher’s scales would be brought forth at four o’clock, plus sackfuls of rose-bed fertilizer compliments of the Fuddle’s of Woozeley Brewery drays, who would arrive fully figged in horse-brasses and ribbons. And his spirits, which had risen at the mention of cream teas, ice-cream, and candy floss, soared at the news that a whole ox was to be roasted.

The reverend was already considering offering to open the Fayre or act as Master of Ceremonies so that he might eat for free; but his ardour cooled as he read on at the prospect of spending the afternoon surrounded by such asinine activities as Ring-the-Bull, Welly-Throwing, Apple Bobbing, Hook a Duck, Splat the Rat, Tip the Dice, Doughnut on a String, Face-Painting. If having to award prizes for the egg-and-spoon, three-legged, and sack races was not bad enough, the prospect of being surrounded by other people’s dogs for a Dog Show and, worst of all, their children, was a real downer.

Just as he was about to toss the communication away, Dark saw a manually typed addition at the end, highlighted in yellow, which clinched it—he would not be attending the event.

Dear Friar Tuck
,

You’re our man for the stocks, or pillory. A fine mediaeval tradition, and our chance to toss back some of the old rubbish you threw at us from the pulpit.

We’ve also got you down for the Slippery Pig contest. Here’s what happens: we strip you down to your skivvies and cover you in grease and lard, should any extra be required. Then you run away squealing as fast as you can, and people chase after you and try to catch you and hold you down with your snout in the mud, while you attempt to wriggle free.

Fun all round, eh? Give ’em a run for their money, old boy.

The Social Committee
.

PS  Remember, remember, the fifth of November, Guy Fawkes night—you’re the guy.

Dark swore, then cheered up at sight of a postcard depicting a bevy of buxom naked dames, who, in the caption, cheerfully requested the favour of configuring their anatomies to suit him. The card was addressed to the reverend’s aspiring nemesis George Bentley, by George’s Helmston cousin, but the gun-shy postman had determined that Dark should be the recipient.

The reverend squirmed with pleasure: the card was one of a series sold at a stall that he patronized in the Regency Arcade under the promenade on Helmston seafront. He had a collection of them already, but not this one, and he made a mental note to train it down soon to see if there were any other new ones in stock. And if he should be lucky enough to bump into any of the featured dames, perhaps he would take them up on their suggestion and ask for a quote.

Next Dark was treated in disrespectful vein to some anonymous verse, which, entitled
Black as Your Hat
, appealed to his love of doggerel:

There is a priest, whose resonant vowels

Are formed, it seems, deep in his bowels,

While the clucking of his consonants