The Fox in the Attic (4 page)

The bishop sighed, closing his fine eyes. These unhappy women! So palpably striving to warm their own several loneliness and unlikeability at the fires of some common hatred ... They were closing in like a scrum now—huddling over the little hellish warmth they had kindled, and hissing their words. But why this anathema against solitariness? “Women who have failed to achieve companionship in their homes, in their marriages: women with loneliness thrust upon them, I suppose they're bound to be outraged by anyone who deliberately
chooses
loneliness.”

A man of orderly mind, the bishop liked to get things generalized and taped like that. Now, his generalization achieved, the tension in his dark face relaxed a little.

Meanwhile Dr. Brinley had poked in his nose at the “Wreckers' Arms” (as he always called the place). Here, and in the Assembly Room behind, preparation of the banquet was going ahead with equal enjoyment whether their rich neighbor Augustine was going to honor them with his presence or not.

All that morning, while the tide was out, farm carts from the mainland had driven down the river bank to where the track ended at a wide bight of smooth hard tidal sand. This divided the last stretch of low-water river-channel from the saltings of the Marsh; traversing the length of it, they had reached the final sickle of the dunes and the way up into Flemton. These carts had carried chickens, geese, turkeys, even whole sheep; or at least a sack of flour or a crock of butter, for the High Steward's Banquet was something of a Dutch treat and few of the guests came quite empty-handed.

But that was over, now. Now, the evening tide had welled in through the river mouth and round behind the rock, flooding the sandy bight and turning it from Flemton's only highway into a vast shallow lagoon. In the dark the shining water was dotted with little boats nodding at anchor and the slanting poles of fish-traps. Flemton was now cut off, except for an isthmus of hummocky sand leading only to the dunes. But already ducks, chickens, geese, turkeys, legs and shoulders of mutton, loins of pork, sirloins of beef, sucking-pigs—there was far more provender than the Wreckers ever could have cooked alone, and according to custom it had been farmed out among all the private ovens in the place.

Now, with all these and with huge home-cured hams boiled in cider as well, with pans of sausages, apple-pies, shuddering jellies in purple and yellow, castellated blancmanges, bedroom jugs of congealed Bird's custard, buckets of boiled potatoes, basins of cabbage—every matron of Flemton was gathered in the Wreckers' big kitchen and full of jollity. Even a happy plumber and his mate had managed to choose this day to install the new sink, and were doggishly threatening the ladies' ankles with their hissing blowlamp.

Barrels of beer were discharging into every shape of jug and ewer.

When the female kitchen company caught sight of Dr. Brinley they all hilariously shrieked together. He raised an arm in acknowledgment, then slipped quietly into the deserted bar from behind.

Ostensibly Flemton banquet was an occasion for men only. Only men were invited, sat down at table, delivered speeches and sang songs. But the women cooked and waited, teased and scolded the banqueters, heckled the speeches and encored the songs if they felt like it; and the women certainly enjoyed it all quite as much as the men.

To tell the truth, the men were inclined to be a bit portentous and solemn. Indeed the only really happy and carefree male in the whole Assembly Room seemed to be that fabulous Dr. Brinley the Coroner—who was eighty-five, and already very drunk, and knew that everybody loved him.

They had tried to steer Dr. Brinley away from sitting next to the bishop, who was new to the mitre and fifty and cold teetotal: “That seat's Mr. Augustine's, Doctor
bach
: come you along this way ...” But the old man looked round in astonishment: “What! Is the boy actually coming, then?”

It was no good: he read the answer in their faces and sat down without more ado.

Presently the doctor nudged the bishop with his elbow, at the same time pointing dramatically across the table at a certain Alderman Teller. Alderman Teller was trying in vain to settle his huge chins into his unaccustomed high collar.

“Do you keep fowls, my lad?” the doctor asked: “My
Lord
I
should
say: forgive an old man, laddie, tongue's taken to slipping.”

“Yes, yes,” said the bishop: “That is ... no: not now, but as a boy ...”

Leaving his outstretched arm at the point as if he had forgotten it Dr. Brinley turned even more confidentially towards the bishop, breathing at him a blast of whiskey and old age: “Then you're familiar with the spectacle of a very big broody hen trying to get down to work on a clutch of eggs in a bucket that's too narrow for her?” At this the bishop turned on him a face like a politely inquiring hatchet; but the doctor seemed to think he had made his point quite clearly enough.

Opposite, Alderman Teller—hearing, but also not catching the allusion—pushed an obstinate fold of jowl into his collar with his finger, then opened his little pink mouth and rolled his eyes solemnly. “Perfect!” shouted Dr. Brinley with a whoop of laughter. “Your health, Alderman Teller dear lad!”

As they clinked glasses the alderman's face broke into a delighted smile as sweet as a child's: “Rhode Islands, Doctor! That's what you ought to have, same as me. But you're right, they do tend to lay away.”

However the doctor was no longer listening. He had turned in his seat and was now pointing along the table at the High Steward himself. The High Steward, bashful in his seat of honor, was giving nervous little tugs at the gold chain of office hung round his neck. “Penalty Five Pounds for Improper Use, Tom!” the doctor cried suddenly. “And I doubt the banquet will stop for you, at that!”

This time the bishop's lip did twitch.

“Shut up, Doc,” muttered the High Steward, amiably but just a little nettled: “You're bottled.” Then he turned round to look at the old man with a wonder not quite free of envy: “Why—and we haven't even drunk ‘The King' yet!”

That was true. The bishop began counting the twenty or more toasts on the toast-list in front of him—a toast and a song alternately: with such a start, could Dr. Brinley possibly last the course? “
The King
”
...
“
The Immortal Memory of the Founder
”
...
“
The Fallen in the Great War
”
...
Dr. Brinley was down to sing “Clementine” immediately after “
The Fallen
,” he saw. And then he noticed further down it was Dr. Brinley who was to propose “
The Lord Bishop
”! In his missionary days in Africa he had attended some curious gatherings, but this bid fair ... indeed he began to wonder if it had been prudent to accept.

“Glad you came,” said the old man suddenly—apropos of nothing, as if reading his thoughts—and patted him on the shoulder: “Good lad!... Good
Lord
” he corrected himself under his breath, and chuckled.

Meanwhile, the banquet continued. The banqueters ate fast and in almost total silence: only Dr. Brinley's sallies kept ringing out in quick succession. “A kind of licensed jester, I suppose,” the bishop ruminated. “But really! At
his
age!”

“My Lord,” said Dr. Brinley, breathing whiskey and bad teeth in his face again: “I wonder would you help an old man in his difficulties, eh?” He pushed his face even closer, and waited for an answer open-mouthed.

“If I can ...”

“Then tell me something very naughty you did as a little nipper.”

The bishop's indrawn breath was almost a gasp—for memory had taken him quite unawares. “A blow below the apron,” the doctor thought, reading his gasp, and chuckled: “No, laddie—not that one,” he said aloud: “Nothing really shaming ... just something for a good laugh when I come to speak to your health.”

“You must give me time to think,” the bishop said evenly. That sudden ancient recollection of real wrong-doing unexpiated had shaken him, and he was too sincere a man to force a smile about it.—But was “a good laugh”
quite
...?

“They'll like you all the better for it,” the old man cajoled, as if yet again reading his thoughts.

But there the matter rested, for someone was forcing his way through the crowd of women serving—the coroner was wanted on the phone. The police at Penrys Cross, it was; and they wouldn't take no for an answer, he was told. Dr. Brinley sighed and left the table.

The telephone was in the stillroom, but even above the clatter of the banquet his voice could be heard everywhere: “Eh?—No, not tomorrow: not possible, hounds meeting at Nant Eifion ... No, nor Wednesday neither: they're meeting at the Bridge ... Tell ye what, I'll hold the inquest Thursday ... Eh? You ought to be thankful, laddie: gives you longer to find out who she was ...
Not
local: you're sure of that?”

A screech of laughter from the kitchen drowned the next few words, but everyone heard what followed: “Mr. Augustine did you say?—Then that's that! Mr. Augustine will have to be summoned.”

Dr. Brinley seemed quite unaware of the general hush as he made his way back to the table. He sat down, grumbling. But at his elbow, arrested in the very act of draining a whiskey-bottle into his glass, stood Mrs. Dai Roberts—and her triumphant eyes were now on stalks:

“
Summonsed?
What's he been caught doing, Sir?”

“Who?”

“Why that Mr. Augustine, of course!”

The coroner turned and looked at her judicially: “Hasn't your Dai told you anything yet?”

“He's not come home. Missing the banquet and all, I just can't understand ...”

So, Dai had gone to earth again! Just like him, rather than face the witness-box. Shy as a wild thing ... ordinarily Dr. Brinley sympathized with Dai's disappearances, married to that woman; but it was awkward now, just when his evidence would be badly wanted at the inquest. “No Dai, eh?” he murmured to himself.

“Tell me, Doctor
bach
?” she wheedled. But he fixed his eye indignantly on his half-filled glass:

“Woman! Is that how you pour a drink?”

“Means opening another bottle,” she answered impatiently: “Mr. Augustine, you were just saying ... ?”

“Then fetch one and open it,” he replied implacably.

Dr. Brinley was happy. The room had begun to rock gently but only like—like a cradle: the motion was not unpleasant
yet
.

It was good to see old customs kept up. Flemton Banquet claimed to be as old as Flemton's Norman charter—old as the titular High Stewardship itself and the little mediaeval garrison of Flemish mercenaries out of which the place had grown (to this day no Welsh was spoken within Flemton, though all the mainland talked it). It had been well worth the long pony-drive from the Cross! Eh? It was good—
good
to be here among all these good fellows. Laddies, and lassies too: they all liked him. They liked his jokes ... That was the point: he was among them and they all loved him so now he was on top of things ...

He surveyed the room. It was time now to think up a new joke, else they'd forget him and start talking among themselves. A good one ... well then a bad one, anything ...

But his cudgelled brains went suddenly as obstinate as a cudgelled ass.

Perhaps another glass?—
A-a-a-ah!
Thank God for His good gift of whiskey! Drinking ... Yes, drinking and hunting: those were the only two times he really felt “
We
” were all one, felt he truly belonged.

Whiskey ... yes, and hunting too—in the
past
, but now you were old, now you could do no more than jog to the Meet and back ...

This motion, now:
was
it a cradle, or was it a galloping horse titty-tup titty-tup ...?

“Hup! And over!” he suddenly exclaimed aloud.

The room faded and he was away: hounds in full cry, Black Bess (or was it Dandy?) between his thighs, leading the field. Hup! Black Bess it was: how beautifully she changed feet on top of the bank and then the downward plunge, the miraculous recovery and away.—
Aren't you afraid?
—Yes of course he was afraid. Broken neck, crushed ribs ... but damn it!

That gap to the right looks a trifle easier ...
Well, perhaps, but ... Curse her she's going for the highest place of a-a-a-all!
Hup!
—Oh, thank God!

“Gentlemen, The King!”

Dr. Brinley was on his feet before any of them, and added a fervent “God bless him!” when he had emptied his glass.—Good lad, George Five! But that boy of his (the Prince) would break his neck one of these days if they let him go on riding.

Yes, hunting was the thing ... of
course
no doctor could practice and hunt three days a week as well! Be damned to private practice, then! They could go on their bended knees ...

Was that the real reason, or just you were a rotten bad doctor?
—Eh?—
Did you leave your practice? Or did your practice leave you?

An angry tear rolled slowly down his nose.

A drunken doctor, a sot?
—Well, they'd made him Coroner, hadn't they? That showed they respected him, didn't it?—
Maybe they'd rather trust you with the dead than with the livin
g ...

“Gentlemen, The Memory of the Fallen!”

A bugle sounded—shatteringly, in that enclosed space. Again the whole room rose stiffly to attention. Most had their memories (for that 1914 war had been a holocaust): all wore faces as if they had.

Briefly and gravely the bishop said his piece. As he did so he tried to keep staring at the Legion banner on the wall opposite, but his gaze was drawn down willy-nilly to a young man under it with ribands on his chest. All that young man's face except mouth and chin was hidden in a black mask which had no holes for eyes ... and suddenly the whole room reeked overpoweringly of beer.