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The
Cats and The Fiddler
Welcome,
Best Beloved! Welcome indeed! You have found me,
as I knew you would. I felt sure that you had
the gift, that it was only a matter of time. Now
I am proved right. Now my work, my suffering,
will not have been in vain. "Beans. .
.Beans. . .Beans. . ."
Are you afraid? You mustn't be afraid. I was
afraid too, when it happened to me. I thought it
was the drugs! Or a waking dream. It's not a
dream, Best Beloved. It might feel like one but
it's not, it's real. It's as real as if it were
happening right now.
"Beans. . . Beans. . . Beans. . ."
Can you see me? Can you see Aunty? Can you see
the garden? Can you see the ducks on the lake?
It's a bit like watching a film, isn't it?
Except it's in your head pictures and words,
in your head.
"Beans. . . Beans. . . Beans. . ."
I'm really glad you're here, Best Beloved,
because I have something terribly important to
show you. Yes, I know you've only just arrived
but this is terribly, terribly important and
there may not be much time. I don't want to
alarm you, but there may not be much time. I'm
going to show you this very important thing and
I want you to promise that you'll watch
carefully, right to the end. I want you to
promise that you'll really see and not just
imagine. That's very important you mustn't
imagine.
"Beans. . . Beans. . . Beans. . . Beans. .
."
Are you ready then? Good, because I'm going to
start. I'm going to start right now. This is it,
okay? I'm starting. Here is a room. Not the room
with me and Aunty but another room, a long time
ago. Dark, isn't it? What do you see? Can you
see the man? If you can, you're imagining; it's
too dark to see him yet. You must wait awhile
and then you'll see him. Listen! Can you hear
his thoughts?
1.
A little before dawn on the morning of the
execution, Commander Kenneth Vie RN allows
himself to be wakened by the up-going milk
lorry, the clatter of empty churns providing a
timely and discreet alarm-call. The first thing
he does is to sigh, deeply. Then, turning onto
his back, he links his hands behind his head and
lies for a while, staring into the darkness.
So this is it, he muses. It is Time march to
the scaffold, canting priest, half a guinea to
the man in the mask and tights.
Executioner. So please ye my lord, prithee
place thy hedde upon the blocke'.
Prisoner (kneeling). Have a care for my
whiskers, sirrah. They have not offended the
King.'
Or rather the Queen, in the present case
Queen of Tenstones. Ha! Suits her.
The Commander smiles wryly, then sighs again,
for he has much to sigh about. Shouldn't be
flippant of course. Death a serious matter, no
matter whose. Sentence harsh, in his opinion,
damnably harsh, even considering the charge.
Shouldn't have agreed to it. Stuck with it now
no choice. Never hear the last of it
otherwise.
"I'll do it my way though," he
mutters. "Damned if I won't."
For the last time he runs through his plan, laid
with the meticulous attention to detail for
which he is known in the Service. Up and ready
by 0640 hours; collect prisoner and leave house
by, say, 0650. Essential to be out of village by
0700, at latest, to avoid meeting blasted Mrs
Bunting on her bike. A tight schedule, he
admits, even if all goes well. He glances at the
clock five minutes and he'll have to get
started. God, listen to it out there! Not what
you'd call inviting. No crowds at the prison
gate this morning, I'll be bound.
The wind almost always blows here the sea is
not far off but overnight it has risen
considerably. It rattles the windows, gurgles in
the drainpipes and flutes among the tall
chimneys of the great house, sending down little
puffs of ice-cold air into the already chill
room. About a six, northeasterly, he opines,
gusting seven. Probably get worse before it gets
better. Snow too, very likely.
It makes the bed seem uncommonly cosy all of a
sudden. Not a bad bed really, for a monk's cell
firm, but not excessively so; ample
blankets; nice, plump pillows. Only a single of
course.
The Commander turns over, drawing up his knees
and wrapping the covers more tightly about him.
Five more minutes, maximum. Make up time on the
drive in. Damn and blast Mrs Bunting for a
bloody old busybody; if it wasn't for her, he
could've had another half hour.
Just five minutes. Perhaps six. . .
Ten minutes later he wakes with a jerk, the
dimly luminous hands of his watch offering a
silent reproach. 1640 hours already! Come on
man, show a leg there! Out or over! Hands off
cocks, on with socks!
He begins to question the whole undertaking.
What seemed a noble resolve the night before now
appears foolish, sentimental. No one likely to
care, except him, for matters of honour and
decency, least of all the accused. The
condemned, he should say.
A particularly fierce blast more like an
eight sends the curtains billowing,
ghostlike, into the room.
No look, forget it. Just forget the whole
ridiculous thing and doze until the gong. All
over in moments, either way, so what does it
matter?
He begins to think of breakfast, the wonderful
Manor breakfast: the blazing fire, the perfectly
laid table, the silver covers on the sideboard
concealing crispy bacon, fat sausages, fried
bread and, more than likely, kippers
Spithead pheasant, one-eyed steak. Mrs Bunting,
bless her, knows his fondness for kippers. A
light doze, then, and breakfast. Forget the
whole stupid, harebrained scheme.
Instantly he is out of bed, feet on the freezing
lino, stripping off his pyjamas.
A sporting chance! He promised the little bugger
a sporting chance and that's what he's going to
give him or be damned. Besides, he's getting
soft, putting on weight. A stiff walk will do
him no harm at all.
Speed is now essential. Stealth too, for the
consequences of discovery would be dire, and he
takes the precaution of washing and shaving by
the light of a carefully shaded table-lamp.
Minutes later he is at the bedroom door, warmly
clad in oiled-wool sweater and duffle coat and
well supplied with pipe and tobacco.
It is here that he encounters a small obstacle.
Normally, the pitch-dark landing with its
minefield of loose boards holds no terror for
him, long practice having taught him exactly
where to place his feet to avoid the creaks. But
his usual destination is the door opposite, some
ten, careful, paces away, always with the
excuse, if challenged, of a nocturnal visit to
the loo. Of the ancient staircase he has amassed
no such detailed knowledge, save for the loud,
multiple cracking, like small-arms fire, that
sometimes comes from the third tread.
For a moment he hesitates, but not for long. The
Commander is nothing if not a man of action
supremely so. Known for it. Only seconds pass
before, displaying the originality and
initiative for which he is legendary in the
Service, he steps boldly forward, cocks a leg
over the bannister rail and slides, with slow
dignity, down to the hall.
At a little after 0655 he emerges from the
kitchen, somewhat flushed and sucking the
knuckles of one hand, but stoutly gum-booted,
with a shotgun over his arm and carrying a
wicker picnic basket. Hurrying across the
deserted stable yard he reaches into the estate
Land Rover, releases the handbrake and gives it
a push. Then, throwing aboard the basket and
leaping in himself, he allows the vehicle to
roll silently out of the high, ornate gates of
the yard and down the sloping track through the
farm, only starting the engine when he considers
himself well out of an earshot. A hundred yards,
two hundred, and he leaves behind him the
still-sleeping village. No Mrs Bunting. Done it!
With time to make up, the Commander puts his
foot down, his headlights sweeping empty fields
and winter-bare hedges as he twists and turns
along the narrow country lanes. There is no
other traffic, he is alone, and with every
passing mile his mood lightens. Presently he
begins to sing there is something about the
noise and motion of the Land Rover that always
makes him want to sing.
"My object all sublime
I shall achieve in time
To let the punishment fit the crime
The punishment f i i i i i i t, the crime. .
."
And after a while, even the occupant of the
basket joins in, though pitching it rather high,
for a tenor.
Ten minutes later he is in Bradport High Street,
turning at its far end onto the town quay and
parking in a secluded spot behind the museum.
It is late December, well out of season, and the
boxy little chain-ferry that plies the harbour-mouth
lies empty, save for a couple of cars and a Post
Office van. He is the only foot passenger.
Moving forward to what will shortly become the
bow, he stands in the shelter of a throbbing
companionway and gazes out indifferently at the
occasional flash of foam in the slowly
lightening darkness. Presently, the service bus
for Swan Regis arrives, and they cast off on
their brief, storm-tossed journey.
"Mornin', sir."
The Commander, automatically searching for his
ticket, glances at the deckhand's eager
expression and inwardly groans. It was, he
supposes, inevitable. Law of Sod.
"Don't suppose you remember me, sir. PO
Fieldfare, sir."
The Commander attempts desperately to cast his
mind back over a dozen ships and twenty years of
peace and war, knowing what it might mean to the
man.
"HMS Dorking, sir. Crete, sir,"
prompts Fieldfare helpfully.
An image of sun-drenched hell slowly resolves
itself: whistle and crump of shells, metallic
stench of blood, mixed, for some forgotten
reason, with the reek of olive oil. "Yes of
course! Hello Fieldfare, how's the leg?"
They both look down at the limb in question, or
rather it's replacement, Fieldfare suitably
gratified.
"Can't complain, sir. They fitted me up all
right. Bit of a nuisance in this job,
though."
"I can imagine."
They stare at each other awkwardly for a few
moments. The Commander has a sudden urge to tell
this long-lost shipmate, this fellow sailor,
that he's chucking it in, swallowing the anchor,
just weeks, maybe, from his promotion. Wouldn't
do, of course. Instead he gropes for some
suitable pleasantry while willing the basket to
remain silent.
Skipper was tellin' me you live local now,
sir," offers Fieldfare.
"Yes, that's right. Lots of changes.
Married man now you know."
"So I heard, sir. Congratulations, sir.
Belated, like."
"Thank you, Fieldfare."
There is another, longish, silence. The ferry
pitches heavily, seawater squirting through a
gap in the bow doors to puddle the deck beneath
their feet. The Commander moves the basket out
of the way of it with his foot.
"Rough old day for rabbitin', sir,"
says Fieldfare, eying the shotgun.
"Er, well you get used to it you
know."
"Yes, I suppose you do."
The thud of the engines slows, and the ferry,
scarcely moving now, begins to yaw and snatch
violently at its chains; they have, thank God,
arrived.
Fieldfare grins apologetically. "Better
have your ticket, sir; got to open the gates.
Nice to meet you again, sir."
The Commander watches the man swing awkwardly
away across the wildly slewing deck, trailing
his tin leg. Damn! He'll be into the Ferryman
when he finishes his shift and it'll be:
"Guess whom I saw out rabbiting on a day
like this?" It'll be all round the bloody
town by lunch time.
The western shore of the harbour could not be
more unlike the one he has just left. Instead of
moored coasters, warehouses and grain silos
there is a long, curving beach of powdery sand,
backed by high dunes. The road from the slipway
crosses the beach, here very wide, and passes
through a distant gap in the dunes marked by a
few low, wooden buildings. There is nothing
else. The two cars, the Post Office van and the
bus drive off the ferry, each with a double,
metallic clang, and are soon lost to sight. He
is alone.
As he moves out of the shelter of the departing
ferry, he takes the full force of the wind. It
tugs at the hood of his duffle-coat, throwing it
back, and kicks up streamers of hissing,
drifting sand, which sting his face, forcing him
to turn away and shield his eyes. It is now a
grey, sunless dawn. The cold is piercing.
Snow in the offing, or I'm a Dutchman, thinks
the Commander, as he makes his way purposefully
towards the dunes.
He is already beginning to feel a little grumpy,
and hungry for his breakfast. The deeply drifted
sand on the road makes it difficult to walk and
the basket has begun to seem heavy and unwieldy,
its reluctant cargo continually and
inconsiderately shifting from side to side. He
didn't sleep well last night. The court marshal
unaccountably disturbed him and he was surprised
to find himself tossed and turned into the small
hours by complex and previously unconsidered
issues of retribution, justice and morality. The
matter might seem trivial to some, but a life is
a life after all. Any life. She can be
remarkably hard when it comes to it; a bitter,
vengeful creature these days, is the Queen of
Tenstone.
"Scapegoat, really," he mutters.
"You're a scapegoat, Pussy Cat. Scapegoat
for me. Fanciful? Maybe, maybe not. Anyway, what
did I expect? Play that sort of game and you pay
the price or someone does. "
Thinking about it, if she's Queen, what about H?
Can't see her settling for Princess. Have to be
a duumvirate; or divide the kingdom. That's what
it'll come to, very likely: split down the
middle, barbed wire, guards.
He is nearing the gap in the dunes now, where a
small beach-cafι sits abandoned and boarded up
for the winter. Cream-painted chairs and tables
are stacked, rusting, on the little terrace and
an ice-cream sign swings violently in the wind.
Turning, he begins to climb the nearest hill of
sand, grabbing at tussocks of dry marram grass
with his free hand. The dunes here are
remarkably high, well above the roof of the cafι.
There is a path, of sorts, and the Commander
makes his way along it, parallel with the beach.
Here, everything is in motion: the sea, the
hissing grass, the low, scudding clouds and the
sand, driving like smoke before the wind. The
wind buffets him mightily. It is almost
impossible to stand upright.
The last time he came here was with Veronica,
before the accident of course. They swam and
picnicked, probably even used this same bloody
basket. He can see her now, in her yellow
costume, larking about. Larking about!
She had a damned good figure then. She was never
what you'd call pretty, but she had a damned
good figure; tall, but not a beanpole nice
arse and tits, a good handful. H not much more
than a child then, of course, or so it seemed.
Must have felt a bit of a gooseberry, thinking
about it. It all seems much more than, what,
seven years? Only seven years!
Dignity is the thing. There ought to be dignity.
Some deaths have dignity, some have not. What
she wants has not. It's a nasty squalid business
and he'll have nothing to do with it. Couldn't
possibly explain of course hopeless.
Wouldn't know what he was driving at. Man's
thing, probably. Need to go through a war, a
fighting war.
It's six and a half years, actually, because H
had just had her sixteenth birthday and now
she's twenty-two. God she was a looker, even
then, and knew it. No figure though. Flat as a
bloody pancake. Not much better now, come to
that.
What is needed is an element of personal
volition, a certain degree of control. You can
march boldly enough to the scaffold or stake or
wherever, but after that the matter is taken out
of your hands: no dignity, and a brutalising
experience for all concerned. You can't die with
dignity, in his opinion, without some active
involvement. Getting yourself stung by an asp,
that's all right, falling on your sword, fine.
Here's a gun, here's a cup of hemlock, get on
with it. None of these applicable in the present
case of course. All he can offer is a sporting
chance. Give the little bugger a sporting
chance. Well, he will, and be damned for the
consequences.
After a while the path descends into a sandy
bowl or depression, surrounded by dunes. Here,
sheltered from the worst violence of the wind,
is a relative silence and calm. This'll do as
well as any, thinks the Commander. He puts down
the basket and half sitting against the steeply
sloping side of a dune, sets about lighting his
pipe. A good deal of expenditure in matches is
required, and much bending about and cupping of
hands, but after a while a thin blue smoke
drifts from between his fingers. That done, he
turns his attention to the matter in hand.
Taking the shotgun from its cover, he proceeds
to load it with cartridges from his duffle coat
pocket. Next, he kneels and unbuckles the
basket. Throwing open the lid, he returns to his
perch and holds himself in readiness.
The cat jumps out almost immediately, clearing
the edge of the hamper in one controlled,
muscular bound. He seems to show neither fear
nor any particular surprise at his unusual
surroundings, only a sort of wary curiosity, and
quickly begins to circle about, sniffing at this
and that. When he has gone a few yards,
threatening to disappear over the nearest dune,
the Commander slowly raises the gun, at the same
time knocking off the safety catch. Hearing this
slight sound, the cat turns towards him, as if
noticing him for the first time. Padding over,
he settles down just a few inches from his feet
and gazes expectantly up at him. The Commander,
somewhat discomfitted, lowers the gun and glares
back.
He is, as cats go, an unprepossessing creature:
mostly black, but with a white dickey front and
white spats, none too clean. Small for a tom,
his head and paws are disproportionately large,
giving him, at first sight, a slightly
whimsical, cartoon-kitten look. But this is no
kitten, for closer inspection reveals that every
part of him bears witness to a long and
dissolute life. There are patches of fur missing
from his flanks, revealing blotched and puckered
skin, his snub nose is cris-crossed with battle
scars; his small, round ears are much torn and
scabbed the left one three parts missing
and the last inch or so of his stubby tail is
curiously bent, almost to a perfect right-angle.
He now sits with it stuck out untidily behind
him, all the while observing the Commander with
opaque, unblinking yellow eyes.
"So it's come to this," says the
Commander severely. "Your filthy habits
have brought you to this." He draws heavily
on his pipe, the smoke immediately whipped away
by the wind. "It's entirely your own fault,
I hope you realise that. Conduct prejudicial,
attacking a senior officer, not to mention that
nasty business with the teddy bear. Not much of
a record is it? You've had plenty of chances,
goodness knows: nice berth, nothing to do but
eat and sleep, mousing not required not that
you ever did any, that I noticed but no, you
had to make yourself a pain in the arse, had to
muck it up, didn't you?"
The cat makes no answer to these charges, only
turning away briefly to vigorously nibble and
lick at his back. Flea, thinks the Commander,
automatically.
"They wanted to put you to sleep, you
know," he continues. "The Big Sleep.
What d'you think of that? Quick needle up the
bum and into the bin with you no dignity.
Lucky you had me around, wasn't it?"
If the cat agrees, he makes no sign of it, only
continuing to gaze upwards with seemingly
infinite patience.
"Yes, well, there we are then," says
the Commander, glancing at his watch. "Best
get it over with, eh?" Knocking out his
pipe on his shoe he tucks it carefully into his
pocket before standing up and clapping his hands
twice in a businesslike manner. "Off you go
then." The cat flinches, half rises, then
sinks slowly back onto his haunches.
"Go on, shoo!" The Commander takes a
brisk, threatening step forward, causing the
little animal to beat a strategic retreat, only
to settle again a few yards further off, if with
less aplomb.
The Commander scowls irritably. This is not
going entirely according to plan. "Look,
bugger off, will you!" He now advances on
the cat in a sort of threatening, stamping
shuffle while banging his arms vigorously
against his sides. "Go on, clear off.
Scarper! sling yer ook!"
At this, the cat finally turns and moves sharply
away up the slope of the dune. He pauses for a
moment at the top, struggling belly-deep in the
soft sand, looks behind him in a reproachful
manner, and is gone.
The Commander, seizing his gun, immediately
follows. Throwing himself to the ground he draws
a bead on the bobbing, scurrying animal, now
some forty yards away, counts three, closes his
eyes and fires both barrels. Rising to his feet,
he gazes for a while at the small black shape
high on the next slope and nods grimly.
"A sporting chance," he sighs.
"That was the thing." He looks at his
watch again: 0740 hours. He has cut it a bit
fine, but if he hurries he can be back in his
room by, oh, 0815 at the outside, ready to come
down, yawning and stretching convincingly, for
breakfast. All without the loss of his kipper.
The Commander stands on the upper deck of the
ferry, leaning against the rail and watching the
beach and the dunes receding into the distance.
The wind has now abated somewhat, but the air
has become even colder and it is at last
beginning to snow: tiny, hard flakes, whirling
about. Taking out his pipe, he gazes at it
distractedly and puts it back in his pocket.
He's tried to do his duty by all three of them,
he tells himself, and now, no doubt, he'll have
to suffer the consequences.
For a brief moment he fancies he sees something
moving on the distant shore, but it is quickly
swallowed up in a more substantial flurry. No
matter. They call it an island, the Isle of
Bittern, though strictly it's a peninsula, the
river Wibble almost bisecting its stubby neck;
but for a small animal with six inch legs it
might as well be Van Diemen's Land.
"Fieldfare," cries the Commander.
"Fieldfare, I want a word with you."
"Sir?"
"Look, I've been thinking. Any good at
gardening?"
"Don't know, sir. Never done any. Daresay I
could learn."
"Well come up to the estate office if
you're interested. Know where it is?"
"I can find it, sir."
"Two o'clock suit you?"
"Today, sir? Yes all right, sir. Thank you,
sir!"
"And Fieldfare."
"Sir?"
"I'd rather you didn't mention your seeing
me here today, if you don't mind."
*
"I forgot to tell you," says
Fieldfare, "what with the Manor job and
everythin'. You'd 'ave laughed! There was this
fuckin' cat, see. Came marchin' up the ramp all
confident like, as if 'e did it every day. I
said: Oi, you 'aven't got a ticket, mate.'
Made the fuckin' skipper laugh, that did. Oi,'
I said. You aven't got a fuckin' ticket,
mate.'
"Chased the bugger all over the ship we
did, but it got down behind one of them
stanchions, see. We could see it, like, but we
couldn't get at it. Old Eddy Turnstone was all
for pokin' it out with a broom 'andle 'e's a
cruel bugger, is Eddy but Skip' said ter
leave the poor fuckin' creature alone, so we
did. And d'you know what? When we got this side,
it comes straight out and marches off with all
the other passengers, nice as bloody ninepence.
Seemed to know where it was going an' all."
"No houses on that side. Got shut in a van
or something I expect."
"Maybe, and maybe not."
"What then?"
Fieldfare gives them a knowing wink and taps the
side of his nose. "I aint saying', mate.
More'n my fuckin' life's worth." |
