Mr Cadmus, page 4
Miss Swallow was much struck by the flock wallpaper in the hall. ‘Oh, this is lovely. That rose and cream looks good enough to eat. Is it damask?’ He led them into the room overlooking the front garden and the road. A large rug, with vivid images of elephants and towers, covered the polished wooden floor; a sofa had been placed beneath the window, and beside it a small table with a lamp of green jade. ‘I have been to your antiquity shops,’ he said. ‘I choose wisely.’ His expression took in a lacquered writing table, a folding table of ivory, two armchairs of Georgian date, and several upright chairs with embroidered seats. The two ladies were settled on the sofa as Isolde, shifting from claw to claw, observed them with what Miss Finch believed to be a hostile eye.
‘What a heavenly room,’ Miss Swallow said. ‘Very daring.’
‘I hope it is not too daring. Too un-English.’
‘Not at all. It has a lovely feel to it.’
Miss Finch had been staring nervously at the parrot. ‘So this is Isolde.’
‘Yes. Poor tragic Isolde.’
‘Why is that?’
‘Can you not tell? She lost her mate. Tristram. They were inseparable. Like one bird. Yet the day came when he was felled.’
‘His heart?’
‘Diarrhoea.’
Isolde was largely blue, with specks and streaks of green, together with an amethyst patch above her curved beak.
‘How did she cope?’ Miss Swallow was immediately sympathetic.
‘Cope? She was inconsolable. But she bore up.’ The bird, still glaring at Miss Finch, took up a peanut and cracked the shell with its beak; Miss Finch considered its tongue, fleshy and bulbous, to be faintly obscene.
‘I have been told,’ Miss Swallow was saying, ‘that parrots can last a lifetime. Is it true that they can live for sixty years?’
‘Fuck off, you silly bitch.’
The three of them looked at the cage with amazement and some alarm. The bird had spoken.
Mr Cadmus was indignant. ‘She has not learned that language from me.’
‘From the quarantine,’ Miss Finch said. ‘You never know what types might work there.’
‘Piss off, you old cunt.’
Miss Swallow put her fingers to her ears, as Mr Cadmus hastily threw a black cloth over the cage. The parrot squawked, and then fell silent.
‘The bird is not to blame,’ Miss Swallow said. Miss Finch was not so sure.
‘Some ghastly person has taught her those words. Wait till she catches sight of Montmorency. That will scare the feathers off her!’ She laughed, but stopped abruptly in the fraught cicrcumstances of Mr Cadmus’s household.
Cadmus was distraught. ‘I can’t think what is coming over her. Never before has she used such language. And to guests!’
‘Be patient with her,’ Miss Finch told him. ‘Teach her beautiful words. Such as puppy or candy floss.’
‘They would not be beautiful to a parrot, Maud.’
‘No, Millicent, but slowly they will replace those horrible expressions. You must exercise her.’
‘Exercise a parrot?’
‘What do I mean?’ She shook her head, frustrated. ‘Exorcise. Do we have a little crucifix to hang among her toys? And perhaps a bird prayer?’
Millicent was not impressed by Maud’s suggestion. ‘What do you want, Maud? A black mass? You should complain to the government, Mr Cadmus. These quarantine officials should be sacked.’
Later that evening, after she had retired to bed, Maud Finch heard a loud cackle of laughter from the cottage next door. She could not tell whether it came from the parrot or from its owner.
On Sunday morning Mr Cadmus accompanied the ladies to church. ‘I have a liking for English churches,’ he had told them several days before. ‘They are so simple.’
‘Oh, you must come to St Leonard’s.’ Miss Swallow was enthusiastic. ‘You will meet our minister. Tony is such an asset to Little Camborne.’
So on the appointed morning they walked to the local church at the bottom of the little road. A number of villagers lingered by the porch, greeting new arrivals. Mr Cadmus surveyed them with an expression of genuine interest. If I am to flourish here, he might be presumed for thinking, then I must first understand them. He was introduced to Ron and Phil Appleby, brothers and farmers, both of ruddy complexion and cheerful countenance. ‘Jolly good show,’ he said.
‘Mr Cadmus is our new neighbour,’ Miss Finch told them. ‘He comes from the Mediterranean.’
‘Oh really? My wife and I are off to Malaga in March.’
‘You will find the cathedral enchanting, sir. Not in this style, of course.’ He looked up at the façade of St Leonard’s. ‘Yet absurdly beautiful.’ The two farmers looked at him with curiosity; they were not used to finding things absurdly beautiful, or even beautiful at all. They made their way into the church through the medieval porch into an interior suffused with the scent of beeswax, old stone and a curious fugitive perfume. The stained windows had long since been replaced by transparent glass, and a plain wooden table now stood before the old altar. ‘I miss my saints,’ Mr Cadmus said as they took their place among the rows of wooden benches. ‘And where is the Mother of God? She is loveliness personified. She should be here.’
‘I thought,’ Miss Finch replied, ‘that you liked our English simplicity.’
‘But it may go too far. What is wrong with a little candle and a pinch of incense? Or a rosary?’
‘Idolatry.’
‘Then I am a heretic. God help me. Mea culpa, as we say on Caldera.’
When the congregation was assembled the reverend stood before them in his black cassock and white square-necked surplice.
‘Grace, mercy and peace from God our Father, and the Lord Jesus Christ be with you.’ The reverend’s voice was mild and melodic.
‘And also with you.’
‘This is the day that the Lord has made.’
‘Let us rejoice and be glad in it.’
Mr Cadmus did not reply with the congregation. He did not know the words, although he made a mental note to learn them. He would then feel more at home. Miss Swallow offered him her prayer book. He noticed some pressed rose leaves among its pages, and he held one up between his thumb and forefinger as if to examine its intricate structure of connection. Miss Swallow blushed.
The reverend, Anthony ‘call me Tony’ Beaumont, had the face of a haunted altar boy; he might once have looked angelic, but unknown anxieties had changed his expression. He could not hold a direct gaze for more than two or three seconds; he had a slight tic, at times of stress or perplexity, in his right cheek; he perspired easily, even in cold weather. Yet his voice was as modest and mellifluous as ever.
After the readings of the psalms and the passages from scripture were completed, Tony stepped forward. He began with a homily on the seven knightly virtues, and their relevance to a modern code of chivalry that must include courage, generosity, mercy, justice, nobility, faith and hope.
‘Embrace our neighbours,’ Tony told them, ‘with love and sympathy. The greatest Christian virtues can be exercised in the smallest possible places. Our little village is an example.’ Millicent Swallow was suffused with pride, and glanced at Mr Cadmus.
‘And if our neighbours do sometimes disappoint us, or behave in unacceptable ways, do not harden your hearts against them. Be patient. Look for the best, and not for the worst. And then you will feel the peace of Our Lord Jesus Christ.’
Miss Finch watched as Mr Cadmus wiped the side of his eye. He is not a heretic, she said to herself. He is a Christian.
To that Christian’s astonishment, two or three guitars were brought out from the vestry and given to members of the congregation, who began to strum their instruments or clap their hands in what seemed to be the beginning of some kind of pop anthem. Absentmindedly Tony began to stroke the long hair of a chorister, and the boy smiled.
‘Oh Jesus, Jesus,
Oh Jesus, Jesus, set me free
Oh Jesus, Jesus, shine on me
Send your vibes
To the tribes
Of Israel, oh Jesus, Jesus.’
Mr Cadmus had never heard anything like it, and he looked in surprise at his two companions. Miss Finch remained silent, her lips pursed, but Miss Swallow made a series of half-hearted attempts to join the singing. She seemed to have some difficulty with ‘vibes’, before which she hesitated.
The singing came to an end after two or three repetitions of the chorus. The echo of the guitars lasting only a moment against the old stone walls of the church, which seemed to defy music. A silence ensued in which Tony prepared himself for the recitation of public prayers, and then he turned around to face the congregation for the final blessing.
‘The Lord bless us and preserve us from all evil, and keep us in eternal life.’
‘Amen.’
‘Let us bless the Lord.’
‘Thanks be to God.’
Tony walked slowly from the church and stepped onto the gravel path, beyond the porch, to greet his parishioners. He was introduced to Mr Cadmus, who bowed low and seemed about to kiss his hand; Tony quickly brought out his handkerchief in order to blow his nose. ‘God bless you, Father, for your truly moving words.’
Tony Beaumont was not used to being addressed as ‘Father’, and seemed at a loss how to reply.
‘It is his first time,’ Miss Finch said apologetically.
‘Not in church, surely?’
‘In one of our churches.’
‘Si quis autem in verbo non offenderit, hic perfectus est vir.’ Mr Cadmus held out his hands.
‘I didn’t quite get that,’ Tony said, clearly confused.
‘I don’t think it matters,’ Miss Finch told him. ‘If it was in Latin, it must have been good news.’
Miss Swallow also reassured him. ‘He looks so happy. He has that lovely smile.’
‘I hope,’ Mr Cadmus said as they walked back to the Coppice, ‘that I made a good impression on your priest.’
‘The vicar was very pleased to meet you,’ Miss Swallow replied. ‘He particularly asked that you be invited to our do next week.’
‘Your do?’
‘Yes, we’re having a winter fair for the church restoration fund. We all bring wintry things and sell them.’
‘What is a wintry thing?’
‘Anything, really. Scarves. Gloves. Christmas puddings. Mince pies. Overcoats.’
‘I shall be bringing mulled wine,’ Miss Finch said.
‘Oh, your very splendid mulled wine! But what can a mere foreigner give?’
‘That woollen hat,’ Miss Finch replied. ‘The one I saw you wearing yesterday morning.’
‘But it is so old.’
‘No matter. It looks very handsome, if I may say so. Russian, I think.’
‘Sicilian.’
‘Even better. It is the first Sicilian hat I ever saw.’
So a week later, on Sunday afternoon, the hat was taken in great state to the winter fair held inside St Leonard’s. Stalls had been set up on each side of the central aisle and, as he visited each one in turn, Mr Cadmus introduced himself. Most of the villagers in fact already knew his name or recognised him as ‘the foreign gentleman at number two’. He beamed at jars of pears in brandy, at children’s mittens, at scented candles, at balaclava helmets, at candied orange and all the other paraphernalia of an English winter. Sidney had decorated the windows and window sills with pine cones painted red, blue and white.
‘My mulled wine is going very well,’ Miss Finch told Cadmus. ‘It might almost be foreign.’ Meanwhile Miss Swallow was ‘helping out’ with the raffle which, at five pounds a ticket, was considered to be a little expensive even for a good cause. The prize was a bottle of vintage brandy, donated by the landlord of the Nell Gwynn.
The electric lights of the church were switched on in the late afternoon, just as the shadows began to lengthen, and the raffle tickets were tipped into a large wicker-work hamper. Tony Beaumont stepped forward, riffled through them, and then picked out number twenty-eight as the winner. ‘I do believe,’ Mr Cadmus said to no one in particular. ‘Yes. Twenty-eight! I have it!’ To general applause he accepted the bottle and waved it above his head.
A few minutes later he watched with interest as Tony Beaumont poured all the notes and coins into a black attaché case that he snapped shut. As he did do he looked up at Mr Cadmus, and managed only an uncertain smile.
‘Dear priest, you must pray for your safety along these country by-ways.’
‘No, no, Mr Cadmus. We are a happy congregation.’
‘And honest, too?’
‘To be happy is to be honest.’
‘You must preach that to my little islanders on Caldera. It may come as a surprise to them.’
‘Your island is not familiar to me. But I have heard the name. Could it be connected to Saint Paul?’
Theo shook his head. ‘Alas not.’
‘I cannot quite recall the context. But I am sure there is one. Everything connects, does it not?’
Chapter 5
Hairy Men
‘Have you heard? There’s been a robbery at the post office! An armed robbery. All the police are there!’ Miss Finch had run quickly up to Miss Swallow’s door.
‘Is anybody hurt?’ Miss Swallow asked her.
‘I tripped on my herbaceous border. And now my keys are all mixed up. Hurt? I don’t think so. But there was an ambulance there! And someone said a gun!’
‘Oh my God!’
Mr Cadmus came to his door. ‘What is the excitement?’
‘A robbery!’ The ladies almost said it in unison.
He stepped out. ‘Where?’
‘The post office.’ They might as well have said the Wild West, for all the hysteria.
If anything, he was more curious than his neighbours. ‘Well, I suggest that we walk to the high street. And keep our eyes open.’
The whole village seemed to come out of doors, spilling into the road beside the post office. Voices were raised with accounts of the event, from a pistol being fired to shrieks heard in the neighbourhood of the girls’ school. Neither occurrence could be verified by the policeman. No one was sure what, if anything, had been taken. A photograph of the queen had been turned upside down, and some cigarettes had gone. That was all. How was Mrs Watson? She had been helped into the ambulance, white and shaken, but she seemed to be unhurt and complained about water on the knee. Excitement mounted again as Mr Watson came out of the post office, accompanied by another young policeman in civilian clothes; the postmaster was greeted with scattered applause, which he received with some dignity.
Someone remarked that it might have been the work of the beast of Barnstaple; the rumour spread immediately and within minutes, if not sooner, it was clear that the robbery had been the work of the rapist. He had been in hiding, like an outlaw, and now needed money. Millicent Swallow was already in a state of some alarm. The beast had come to Little Camborne! Who knows? He might even have crept past the Coppice. She would not be able to sleep tonight.
Mr Cadmus had observed the young policeman with interest and now went up to him. ‘You can follow his footprints in the frost?’
‘Of course.’
‘I suspect that he would have made for the nearest stream and followed its course. I would search for the first wood you see going north towards Barnstaple. Look out for cheap cigarettes.’
Maureen Simpson approached Maud Finch. Mrs Simpson, recently widowed, was the personage through whom and from whom most of the village gossip flowed. She lived along the high street, and her net curtains were constantly in movement. ‘This is a terrible thing, Miss Finch.’
‘Perfectly ghastly.’
‘I’m sure I saw somebody in the high street early this morning.’
‘Oh really?’
‘Just before dawn. It was ever so dark. But I can’t sleep.’
‘Your old trouble?’
‘The cold nights bring it on. Anyway, there was someone there. Of course it might have been your new neighbour. The foreign gentleman.’
‘Oh?’
‘He sometimes gets up very early in the morning and walks through the village.’
‘Does he?’
‘Sometimes at night, too. I dare say he has something on his mind. He is always peering.’
‘I dare say he is—’
Her reflection was interrupted by the arrival of Alfred Crozier, the owner of the village garage that also did service as a gardening centre. ‘These people should be shot. What colour was he?’
‘We have not yet been told,’ Miss Finch told him. ‘No doubt it will all come out in due time.’
‘He could have been a gypsy. He won’t be from around here.’
‘I didn’t know we had any gypsies.’
‘Haven’t you heard? They’ve got onto the common at Marbury. What do they call themselves? Travellers. They’d better not travel around here. They’re nothing but trouble.’
The little group was now joined by the ‘handyman’ of the village, John Abbot, known always and only as ‘Jack’. He was carpenter, plumber, gardener and builder all at once. Miss Finch had only recently asked him to repair the fence of her front garden. ‘Did you hear the shot, Jack?’ He lived immediately opposite the post office.
‘Oh yes. I called the police. I would have got the bugger – pardon my French, Miss Finch – but he ran out the back way. I never saw him. I heard Mrs Watson wailing, though, poor soul. So I rang for an ambulance.’
The thought of anyone wailing unnerved Miss Finch; it sounded so foreign and, somehow, superstitious. So she was happy to hurry back to the Coppice, where all news could be safely shared. Soon after she returned, Miss Swallow came to her door.
‘Nothing was taken, apparently, except for some cigarettes and sheets of postage stamps.’
‘Stamps are very expensive these days, Millicent.’
‘True. But are they the sort of thing to satisfy a robber?’
‘Why did he fire his gun? If he did have a gun at all.’
‘They all carry guns. Apparently he was caught off guard when Mr Watson came downstairs in his pyjamas,’ Maud added.
‘The brute.’
