A Bedlam of Bones (24 page)

‘No,’ I had answered, ‘he wasn’t a bad sort.’

But tell you what, though, apart from his premature demise, there
was
a sort of retribution. After that giant plaque was erected in the nave, the Mothers’ Union felt it was time that they had a look-in, and some bright spark suggested that the annual Elizabeth Fotherington Memorial Award (which of course Francis had originally established) should somehow incorporate the memory of its founder. Thus, for many years now, the commemorative anthem composed specially for the ceremony has also borne the name of the Canon of Molehill – i.e. has become ‘The Fotherington-Oughterard Anthem’. It is solemnly played amid popular acclaim every December, and the whole event rakes in whopping funds for maintenance of the church boiler and other worthy essentials. For one so anxious never to have his name linked with that of his victim, Francis may well feel that Fate has played him a pawky trick!

Naturally, I knew it would not last – nothing involving F.O. possibly could. However, I was surprised by the manner of the resolution – as, presumably, was he. Our master had always been clumsy, and falling off that ledge was fairly typical. I had to explain to Bouncer that human beings do not possess the same agility as cats, and if they elect to go crawling about on hands and knees in high places then they must accept the consequences.

The dog cogitated, rattled his bowl, and then said soberly that he thought it was ‘meant’: that lying there on the narrow shelf, listening to the bleatings of Mavis Briggs being winched up from her perch, the vicar had suddenly got tired (as he often did) and decided to call it a day – shut his eyes and just let go. I was not entirely convinced by Bouncer’s view (I rarely am) but he may have had something. However, in the rather delicate circumstances, I thought it best not to argue the point and so steered the conversation in another direction, i.e.
our
future.

(I must explain that we were being temporarily housed by the owners of Florence the wolfhound. The latter had been her gracious self – although absurdly concerned for Bouncer, who of course played up to her for all he was worth. She rashly let him share one of her bones, a kindness of which he took full advantage. Being the lady she is, Florence affected not to notice and gazed into the middle distance while he made nauseous gurgling sounds and stripped the whole thing bare! Sometimes I feel I have failed with that dog.)

‘Anyway,’ I continued to Bouncer, ‘I rather think that in the near future we may be renewing our acquaintance with those obnoxious chinchillas.’

His hackles went up. ‘You mean those idiot bastard bunnies in Sussex?’

‘Exactly,’ I murmured.

‘Why?’ he roared excitedly.

‘Because, Bouncer, from what I have gathered by keeping my ears well primed, I believe we are destined to live with our master’s sister, Primrose. She is coming for us shortly.’

‘Hmm,’ he said, pondering, ‘that should be a bit of all right. She likes me, you know.’

I was about to reply that unfortunately not everyone’s taste is impeccable, when he had the nerve to add that since I had always made her slightly uneasy – and given our present dependence – I had better mind my manners!

‘
My
manners?’ I hissed. He grinned inanely.

My sulk lasted for the rest of the day, but having been offered some cream and tolerable sardines from the wolfhound people, I was disposed to be genial again. Bouncer too was in a good mood – evidently relishing the idea of the chinchillas and the attentions from Primrose. (It did not seem to enter the dog’s head that were he to show too much interest in the rabbits, their owner would be less indulgent. A prospect I found mildly amusing.)

‘I say, Maurice,’ he exclaimed, ‘if we are good perhaps P.O. will give us some more toys, like sort of welcome presents. I could do with a new rubber ball – the one F.O. gave me has lost all its bells.’ (Yes, I had noted that and was thankful for the small mercy. But sadly, nothing lasts.) ‘And
you
might get a new woolly mouse!’

‘Quite possibly,’ I acknowledged. ‘That would be most welcome.’ There was silence as we contemplated the gift-laden future.

And then furrowing his brows and drooping his head, the dog muttered, ‘Maurice, do you think F.O. is going to be
all right
?’

‘Oh yes,’ I replied, ‘no doubt about it.’

‘I mean, where he’s gone – will there be any bones for him?’

‘Heaps! Strewn everywhere,’ I assured him.

‘And gin and fags?’

‘Of course.’

‘And good loud music?’

I winced. ‘Bound to be … harps and trumpets blaring all over the place!’

‘And peppermints and gobstoppers?’

‘Thousands.’

‘Ah well, he’ll be all right then!’

‘Yes, Bouncer, never fear, he will be
all right
. And so shall we.’

A Load of Old Bones

Bones in the Belfry

Bone Idle

Bones in High Places