Complete Short Stories (19 page)

Here the Prebendary tried to argue the toss, but your correspondent reminded him that the symbolic removal of the hat is emphasized
by Queen’s Regulations, which make it a punishable offence to salute bareheaded.

Prebendary Palk then grunted with less than conviction, and returned to his marriage hypothesis: ‘Granted that the Divine Law, as starkly laid down in Leviticus xx, 13, prevents the Church from recognizing a physical union between man and man; yet if one partner in this union be physically a female, is not the spirit
of the Law observed? And would this spirit not be flouted were the union one between a woman who was legally and
physically a man, and a man who had retained his physical male nature?’

Your blushing correspondent was obliged to agree that, in his opinion, flouting would have occurred.

‘And, to take an extreme instance: what of a marriage solemnized in church between a man who has been physically
and legally, but not spiritually, changed to a woman, and a woman who has been physically and legally, but not spiritually, changed to a man? I can see no possible moral objection to a match of this sort, because the spouses belong to opposite sexes whichever way you look at it. But, if the ex-woman prove her intrinsic masculinity by begetting children on the ex-man, and if the ex-man proves
his intrinsic femininity by bearing and suckling these, to which of the two are the offspring to yield obedience as the spiritual male authority (Genesis iii, 16) in the household? And which of the two should be churched after the birth of each legitimate offspring?’

‘Search me,’ replied your correspondent gravely, signing to the tapster, who at once refilled the Prebendary’s glass. ‘Perhaps
the decision would be better left to the individual conscience?’

‘These are indeed thorny problems,’ declared Prebendary Palk, ‘but they must be resolutely faced, and not only by the Protestant Churches. Heaven knows what the Vatican reaction will be, but only yesterday I was talking to a Greek Orthodox dignitary – the Lesbian Patriarch in point of fact…’

‘Off record,’ interrupted your correspondent
boldly, ‘what counsel would you give to a legalized ex-man if he were to fall honourably in love with his deceased grandmother’s husband and find his feelings tenderly reciprocated?’

‘Strictly off record,’ the Prebendary answered, venting a non-ecclesiastical chuckle, ‘I should advise him to get on with it while the going is good, publish the banns in a remote parish, and not disclose the relationship
to the officiating priest. It is, after all, as the Chief of Sinners pointed out, better to marry than to burn; and whatever legislation may be called for will not retrospectively illegitimize the offspring of such a union – we can promise your friend that.’

‘I assure you, the case is quite hypothetical,’ your correspondent stammered, meeting the Prebendary’s shrewdly curious gaze with some embarrassment.

H
AVE
I
THE
honour of addressing Mrs Hipkinson?

That’s me! And what can I do for you, young man?

I have a verbal introduction from – from an officer of your organization. Robin of Barking Creek was the name he gave.

If that isn’t just like Robin’s cheek! The old buck hasn’t even dropped me a Christmas card since the year sweets came off the ration, and now he sends
me trouble.

Trouble, Mrs Hipkinson?

Trouble, I said. You’re not one of us. Don’t need to do no crystal gazing to see that. What’s the game?

Robin of Barking Creek has been kind enough to suggest that you would be kind enough to…

Cut it out. Got my shopping to finish.

If I might perhaps be allowed to carry your basket? It looks as if it were rather heavy.

O.K., you win. Take the damn thing.
My corns are giving me gyp. Well, now, out with it!

The fact is, madam, I’m engaged in writing a D. Phil. thesis on Contemporary Magology…

Eh? What’s that? Talk straight,
if
you please!

Excuse me. I mean I’m a University graduate studying present-day witchcraft; as a means of taking my degree in Philosophy.

Now, that makes a bit more sense. If Robin answers for you, I don’t see why we couldn’t
help – same as I got our Deanna up into O level with a bit of a spell I cast on the Modern School examiners. But don’t trouble to speak in whispers. Them eighteenth-century Witchcraft Acts is obsolescent now, except as regards fortune-tellers; and we don’t touch that lay, not professionally we don’t. Course, I admit, we keep ourselves to ourselves, but so do the Masons and the Foresters and the
Buffs, not to mention the Commies. And all are welcome to our little do’s, what consent to be duly pricked in their finger-tips and take the oath and give that there comical kiss. The police don’t interfere. Got their work cut out to keep up with motoring offences and juvenile crime, and cetera. Nor
they don’t believe in witches, they say; only in fairies. They’re real down on the poor fairies,
these days.

Do you mean to say the police wouldn’t break up one of your Grand Sabbaths, if…

Half a mo’! Got to pop into the Home and Commercial for a dozen rashers and a couple of hen-fruit. Bring the basket along, ducks, if you please…

As you were saying, Mrs Hipkinson?

Ah yes, about them Sabbaths… Well, see, so’s to keep on the right side of the Law, on account we all have to appear starko,
naturally we hire the Nudists’ Hall. Main festivals are quarter-days and cross quarter-days; them’s the obligatory ones, same as in Lancashire and the Highlands and everywhere else. Can’t often spare the time in between. We run two covens here, used to be three – mixed sexes, but us girls are in the big majority. I’m Pucelle of Coven No. 1, and my boy-friend Arthur o’Bower (radio-mechanic in private
life), he’s Chief Devil of both. My husband plays the tabor and jew’s-trump in Coven No. 2. Not very well up in the book of words, but a willing performer, that’s Mr H.

I hope I’m not being indiscreet, but how do you name your God of the Witches?

Well, we used different names in the old days, before this village became what’s called a dormitory suburb. He was Mahew, or Lug, or Herne, I seem
to remember, according to the time of year. But the Rev. Jones, our last Chief Devil but two, he was a bit of a scholar: always called the god ‘Faunus’, which is Greek or Hebrew, I understand.

But Faunus was a patron of flocks and forests. There aren’t many flocks or forests in North-Eastern London, surely?

Too true, there aren’t; but we perform our fertility rites in aid of the allotments.
We all feel that the allotments is a good cause to be encouraged, remembering how short of food we went in the War. Reminds me, got to stop at that fruit stall: horse-radish and a cabbage lettuce and a few nice carrots. The horse-radish is for my little old familiar; too strong for my own taste… Shopping’s a lot easier since Arthur and me got rid of that there Hitler…

Please continue, Mrs Hipkinson.

Well, as I was saying, that Hitler caused us a lot of trouble. We don’t hold with politics as a rule, but them Natsies was just too bad with their incendiaries and buzz-bombs. So Arthur and I worked on him at a distance, using all the strongest enchantments in the
Book of Moons
and out of it, not to mention a couple of new ones I got out of them Free French Breton sailors. But Mr Hitler was a
difficult nut to crack. He was
protected,
see? But Mr Hitler had given us fire, and fire we would give Mr Hitler. First time, unfortunately, we got a couple o’ words wrong in the
formula, and only blew his pants off him. Next time, we didn’t slip up; and we burned the little basket to a cinder… Reminds me of my great-grandmother, old Mrs Lou Simmons of Wanstead. She got mad with the Emperor Napoleon
Bonapart, and caused ’im a horrid belly-ache on the Field of Waterloo. Done, at a distance again, with toad’s venom – you got to get a toad scared sick before he’ll secrete the right stuff. But old Lou, she scared her toad good and proper: showed him a distorting looking-glass – clever act, eh? So Boney couldn’t keep his mind on the battle; it was those awful gripings in his stomjack what gave
the Duke of Wellington his opportunity. Must cross over to the chemist, if you don’t mind…

For flying ointment, by any chance?

Don’t be potty! Think I’d ask that Mr Cadman for soot and baby’s fat and bat’s blood and aconite and water-parsnip? The old carcase would think I was pulling his leg. No, Long Jack of Coven No. 2 makes up our flying ointment – Jack’s assistant-dispenser at the Children’s
Hospital down New Cut. Oh, but look at that queue! I don’t think I’ll trouble this morning. An aspirin will do me just as well as the panel medicine.

Do you still use the old-style besom at your merrymakings, Mrs Hipkinson?

There’s another difficulty you laid your finger on. Can’t get a decent besom hereabouts, not for love nor money. Painted white wood and artificial bristles, that’s what they
offer you. We got to send all the way to a bloke at Taunton for the real thing – ash and birch with osier for the binding – and last time, believe it or don’t, the damned fool sent me a consignment bound in nylon tape! Nylon tape, I ask you!

Yes, I fear that modern technological conditions are not favourable to a spread of the Old Religion.

Can’t grumble. We’re up to strength at present, until
one or two of the older boys and girls drop off the hook. But TV isn’t doing us no good. Sometimes I got to do a bit of magic-making before I can drag my coven away from that Children’s Hour.

Could you tell me what sort of magic?

Oh, nothing much; just done with tallow dolls and a bit of itching powder. I raise shingles on their sit-upons, that’s the principle. Main trouble is, there’s not been
a girl of school-age joined us since my Deanna, which is quite a time. It’s hell beating up recruits. Why, I know families where there’s three generations of witches behind the kids, and can you guess what they all say?

I should not like to venture a guess, Mrs Hipkinson.

They say it’s
rude. Rude!
That’s a good one, eh? Well now, what about Candlemas? Falls on a Saturday this year. Come along
at dusk. Nudists’ Hall, remember – first big building to the left past the traffic lights. Just knock. And don’t you worry about the finger-pricking. I’ll bring iodine and lint.

This is very kind of you indeed, Mrs Hipkinson. I’ll phone Barking Creek tonight and tell Robin how helpful you have been.

Don’t mention it, young man. Well, here’s my dump. Can’t ask you in, I’m afraid, on account of
my little old familiar wouldn’t probably take to you. But it’s been a nice chat. O.K., then. On Candlemas Eve, look out for three green frogs in your shaving mug; I’ll send them as a reminder… And mind, no funny business, Mister Clever! We welcome good sports, specially the College type like yourself; but nosy-parkers has got to watch their step, see? Last Lammas, Arthur and me caught a reporter
from the
North-Eastern Examiner
concealed about the premises.
Hey presto!
and we transformed him into one of them Australian yellow dog dingoes. Took him down to Regent’s Park in Arthur’s van, we did, and let him loose on the grass. Made out he’d escaped from the Zoological Gardens; the keepers soon copped him. He’s the only dingo in the pen with a kink in his tail; but you’d pick him out even
without that, I dare say, by his hang-dog look. Yes, you can watch the dingoes free from the ‘Scotsman’s Zoo’, meaning that nice walk along the Park railings. Well, cheerio for the present!

Good-bye, Mrs Hipkinson.

D
EAR
A
UNTIE
M
AY
,

About that christening. The baby’s father, Don Onofre Tur y Tur, was a lawyer; but that doesn’t mean much here in Majorca. Only a few lawyers have offices and clerks and things. The rest take law degrees because their fathers want to make gentlemen of them that way; though there isn’t enough law work to go around among them all. And once they become gentlemen
they are ashamed to sell melons in the market, or plough olive terraces with a mule-plough; so most of them waste their time in cafés, or make love to foreign lady-tourists who look lonely.

Onofre’s father, Don Isidoro, had earned lots and lots by selling icecream outside the boys’ colleges in the summer and doughnuts in the winter. Afterwards he bought a dance-house called ‘The Blue Parrot’
and a souvenir shop called ‘Pensées de Majorque’, and thus became immensely rich, like Charles Augustus Fortescue in the
Cautionary Tales.
But Onofre fell in love with Marujita, one of the taxi-girls at ‘The Blue Parrot’ and secretly married her. (The taxi-girls’ job is to dance with the customers and make them buy gallons of expensive drink, and then sit in corners and cuddle them all night.)
Don Isidoro was furious when he found out; he banished Onofre to Binijiny with an allowance of a hundred pesetas a day, telling him never to show his face in Palma again.

Of course, everyone at Binijiny knew the story; and the mayor’s wife and the secretary’s wife were awfully catty to Marujita. But Onofre said she mustn’t pay any attention to these low people. He managed to be quite happy himself:
he had a motor-bicycle, and an apparatus for spearing fish under water, and a gun for shooting rabbits, and a quail for decoying quail, and a net for netting thrushes. He also used to play poker every day with two American abstract painters and one New Zealand real painter. Marujita may have been a bit lonely, but she loved having a home of her own, after being a taxi-girl, and a hundred pesetas
a day seemed like riches.

One day the rumour went round that Marujita was ‘embarrassed and soon going to give light’, meaning she expected a baby, and presently Onofre asked mother to arrange things with the midwife, a kind woman from Madrid who thinks Binijiny very rustic. So mother did. Marujita
couldn’t manage the housework towards the end, but the neighbours pretended to be too terribly busy
to look in, and we live on the other side of the valley. So, because a Spanish man doesn’t help in the house, especially if he’s a gentleman like Onofre, Marujita cabled for her younger sister Sita. Don Isidoro had dismissed Sita from ‘The Blue Parrot’, where she was dancing too, for fear the men customers found out that she was his relative; he gave her a day’s notice and her boat fare, third-class,
to Valencia. Wasn’t that mean? Well, Sita turned up in Binijiny a month before the baby was expected, and though she seemed scared of mother and us at first, as though we’d certainly be unkind to her, we liked her awfully. The two sisters were always crying over each other and kissing, and saying rosaries; and Sita knitted vests and socks all day.