yards behind me. The passenger door was flung open: and swathed in furs and furbelows, out stepped Mrs Carruthers. I had been right after all!
The noise started immediately she put foot to pavement, as with whoops and cackles she struggled to prise from the back seat a female companion, who eventually emerged into the air as might a grey porpoise. The driver also emerged – one my father would doubtless have described as ‘rather a common little man’, sporting a small moustache and a very loud check jacket. He was carrying a wicker hamper. The porpoise lady was also carrying something: a large shiny wooden box with brass corners. Mrs Carruthers carried nothing except a tightly furled pink umbrella with an enormous spike. Chatting and clattering, the three of them tottered towards the corner around which Clinker had disappeared.
I looked at the hamper, the wooden box, and my watch. Nearly six o’clock – l’heure bleue : the cocktail hour. Obviously time for tiddlywinks and tequilas!
Thus with my mind filled with visions of genteel riot and roguery, I left the Vauxhall Bridge Road and braced myself for the Brighton run.
The Cat’s Memoir
As I had predicted, the vicar started making preparations to go up to London. Clearly the Brighton type had tightened the screws and our addled master was now once more in the role of reluctant lackey. I cannot say that his discomfort would have bothered me unduly – the risible blunders of humans deserving of some small penance. However, in this particular case the penance would not be confined to F.O. If his project aborted we should be involved, and that was not something that I found amusing. Life was precarious enough as it was without the vicar’s antics fouling things further.
As I pondered the matter I felt a sulk hovering and began to make my way to the holly bush where I settle at such times. However, my path was blocked by Bouncer. Last seen he had been skulking around the tool shed, but he had evidently observed me emerging from the rhododendrons and was now standing barring my way and panting loudly.
‘I say, Maurice,’ he gasped, ‘you’ll never guess – he’s cleared away my bones and blanket. It’s not right!’
I observed that there were very few things of F.O.’s doing which were right, and would he kindly mind removing himself from my path. He said that he did mind actually, as he had some urgent things to communicate and would appreciate my advice. I am of course renowned for giving good advice and can rarely resist an appeal to my helpful sagacity. Thus I agreed to listen to the dog’s complaints. These were not easy to follow but seemed to involve the church, the vestry, the Briggs woman, and some unpleasant-sounding ham bones.
‘… so I had gone to all the trouble of making this cosy kennel,’ he gabbled, ‘and put all my stuff there, even the blanket, and it was a really good little den. I’d been going there for weeks, and then F.O. messed it all up and locked the door. It’s not fair!’
‘Nothing is. Besides, you never told me about it!’ I replied irritably.
‘Thought you would probably cut up rough,’ he explained.
‘Nonsense,’ I said. ‘I am not in the habit of “cutting up rough”, though doubtless I would have questioned the wisdom of the venture.’
‘That’s what I said – cut up rough.’
I let that pass, and instead asked how on earth he had managed to transport the blanket unobserved. ‘Must have been quite cumbersome. Did you do it at night?’
‘Didn’t do it at all. It was O’Shaughnessy. He’s got a bigger mouth than me. Besides, it was his idea in the first place. Said I would be as snug as a bug next to the hot pipes and only an eejit would think of looking there. A “darlin’ little hidey hole” he called it.’ I might have known. Trust the setter to be at the bottom of things!
‘Well, nice while it lasted, I daresay,’ I observed. ‘But you’ll have to find another place now
The noise started immediately she put foot to pavement, as with whoops and cackles she struggled to prise from the back seat a female companion, who eventually emerged into the air as might a grey porpoise. The driver also emerged – one my father would doubtless have described as ‘rather a common little man’, sporting a small moustache and a very loud check jacket. He was carrying a wicker hamper. The porpoise lady was also carrying something: a large shiny wooden box with brass corners. Mrs Carruthers carried nothing except a tightly furled pink umbrella with an enormous spike. Chatting and clattering, the three of them tottered towards the corner around which Clinker had disappeared.
I looked at the hamper, the wooden box, and my watch. Nearly six o’clock – l’heure bleue : the cocktail hour. Obviously time for tiddlywinks and tequilas!
Thus with my mind filled with visions of genteel riot and roguery, I left the Vauxhall Bridge Road and braced myself for the Brighton run.
The Cat’s Memoir
As I had predicted, the vicar started making preparations to go up to London. Clearly the Brighton type had tightened the screws and our addled master was now once more in the role of reluctant lackey. I cannot say that his discomfort would have bothered me unduly – the risible blunders of humans deserving of some small penance. However, in this particular case the penance would not be confined to F.O. If his project aborted we should be involved, and that was not something that I found amusing. Life was precarious enough as it was without the vicar’s antics fouling things further.
As I pondered the matter I felt a sulk hovering and began to make my way to the holly bush where I settle at such times. However, my path was blocked by Bouncer. Last seen he had been skulking around the tool shed, but he had evidently observed me emerging from the rhododendrons and was now standing barring my way and panting loudly.
‘I say, Maurice,’ he gasped, ‘you’ll never guess – he’s cleared away my bones and blanket. It’s not right!’
I observed that there were very few things of F.O.’s doing which were right, and would he kindly mind removing himself from my path. He said that he did mind actually, as he had some urgent things to communicate and would appreciate my advice. I am of course renowned for giving good advice and can rarely resist an appeal to my helpful sagacity. Thus I agreed to listen to the dog’s complaints. These were not easy to follow but seemed to involve the church, the vestry, the Briggs woman, and some unpleasant-sounding ham bones.
‘… so I had gone to all the trouble of making this cosy kennel,’ he gabbled, ‘and put all my stuff there, even the blanket, and it was a really good little den. I’d been going there for weeks, and then F.O. messed it all up and locked the door. It’s not fair!’
‘Nothing is. Besides, you never told me about it!’ I replied irritably.
‘Thought you would probably cut up rough,’ he explained.
‘Nonsense,’ I said. ‘I am not in the habit of “cutting up rough”, though doubtless I would have questioned the wisdom of the venture.’
‘That’s what I said – cut up rough.’
I let that pass, and instead asked how on earth he had managed to transport the blanket unobserved. ‘Must have been quite cumbersome. Did you do it at night?’
‘Didn’t do it at all. It was O’Shaughnessy. He’s got a bigger mouth than me. Besides, it was his idea in the first place. Said I would be as snug as a bug next to the hot pipes and only an eejit would think of looking there. A “darlin’ little hidey hole” he called it.’ I might have known. Trust the setter to be at the bottom of things!
‘Well, nice while it lasted, I daresay,’ I observed. ‘But you’ll have to find another place now
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