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Authors: Suzette Hill
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soft-soaped, and glumly I resigned myself to abandoning the plan. However, her next words took the wind out of my sails.
‘Obviously you must bring them down here immediately – the sooner they’re out of your clutches the safer! And while you’re about it, you had better stay for a couple of days: the garden is getting so overgrown and there’s a large patch I need clearing.’
Stung by the allusion to my imputed incompetence, I was nevertheless delighted at the ease with which she had complied – though rather less pleased with the reference to the garden. Still, in the circumstances I could hardly decline. There was also a slight snag about the length of my stay. My original hope had been to nip down to Sussex, hand over the pictures and get back to Molehill the same day. Parish matters had been slightly more pressing than usual and I really couldn’t afford to take the time off. But clearly Duty would have to bow to Expedience for I certainly couldn’t risk offending Primrose! Some arrangement had to be devised.
The neighbouring parish had just taken delivery of a new curate, a fresh-faced tyro endearingly eager to please but, I gathered, somewhat lacking in initiative. Perhaps I could borrow him for the duration: such an opportunity surely providing him with admirable practice.
My luck must have been in, for St Hilda’s rector, possibly wearying of his protégé’s dependence, seemed only too eager to co-operate and asked rather plaintively if I was sure I didn’t want him for longer. Thus the matter was settled, and after drawing up a set of instructions for the newcomer I started to prepare for my visit.
The first thing to do of course was to rewrap the pictures. This was a laborious task as deftness is not my forte and it was maddening having to grapple with so much recalcitrant paper and twine. But I finally managed it and sealed the things with as much sticky tape as I could find. (The last thing I wanted was their being vulnerable to Primrose’s inquisitive probings!) Then came the chore of lugging them down from the belfry and into the car; an exhausting business, and what with that and some preliminary packing I felt quite overcome by fatigue, and slumped thankfully into an armchair.
I was just dozing off when there was a scrabbling at my knees: Bouncer, reminding me that it was long past his supper time. Seeing him there reproachful and insistent, I suddenly realized that in my concern with the pictures I had made no provision for the animals. What should I do? Leave them with the new curate? Possibly, but perhaps better not. From what I had heard of Barry – as I gathered his name to be – the additional responsibility of a wayward cat and dog would doubtless prove too much. Two days ministering to Tapsell’s tantrums and the likes of Mavis Briggs was chancy enough for anyone, let alone a nervous novice! There was nothing for it but to take them with me.
10
The Dog’s Diary
Of course he grumbled all the way down there – hissing, spitting, mewing. No chance of getting a kip. Not that I wanted one really, because I like looking out of the window and seeing all the cows and trees and sheep go by; and you never know when you might see another dog whirling past in his master’s car, and you can make faces at it and look very fierce.
Mind you, Maurice was in a different position from me – in his cat-cage on the back seat. So I suppose you canunderstand him being a bit cheesed off. He hadn’t been in a car before so I don’t expect that helped either. Of course, I’ve been in one lots of times and know all about them. But Maurice doesn’t like me knowing things he doesn’t, so that had put him in a pet from the start. The moment F.O. shoved him in that cage and I saw him scowling out through the wire I knew we were in for a bumpy ride. Not that the vicar noticed – too busy singing hymns and puffing his fags. (With that amount of smoke swirling around I’m surprised he
‘Obviously you must bring them down here immediately – the sooner they’re out of your clutches the safer! And while you’re about it, you had better stay for a couple of days: the garden is getting so overgrown and there’s a large patch I need clearing.’
Stung by the allusion to my imputed incompetence, I was nevertheless delighted at the ease with which she had complied – though rather less pleased with the reference to the garden. Still, in the circumstances I could hardly decline. There was also a slight snag about the length of my stay. My original hope had been to nip down to Sussex, hand over the pictures and get back to Molehill the same day. Parish matters had been slightly more pressing than usual and I really couldn’t afford to take the time off. But clearly Duty would have to bow to Expedience for I certainly couldn’t risk offending Primrose! Some arrangement had to be devised.
The neighbouring parish had just taken delivery of a new curate, a fresh-faced tyro endearingly eager to please but, I gathered, somewhat lacking in initiative. Perhaps I could borrow him for the duration: such an opportunity surely providing him with admirable practice.
My luck must have been in, for St Hilda’s rector, possibly wearying of his protégé’s dependence, seemed only too eager to co-operate and asked rather plaintively if I was sure I didn’t want him for longer. Thus the matter was settled, and after drawing up a set of instructions for the newcomer I started to prepare for my visit.
The first thing to do of course was to rewrap the pictures. This was a laborious task as deftness is not my forte and it was maddening having to grapple with so much recalcitrant paper and twine. But I finally managed it and sealed the things with as much sticky tape as I could find. (The last thing I wanted was their being vulnerable to Primrose’s inquisitive probings!) Then came the chore of lugging them down from the belfry and into the car; an exhausting business, and what with that and some preliminary packing I felt quite overcome by fatigue, and slumped thankfully into an armchair.
I was just dozing off when there was a scrabbling at my knees: Bouncer, reminding me that it was long past his supper time. Seeing him there reproachful and insistent, I suddenly realized that in my concern with the pictures I had made no provision for the animals. What should I do? Leave them with the new curate? Possibly, but perhaps better not. From what I had heard of Barry – as I gathered his name to be – the additional responsibility of a wayward cat and dog would doubtless prove too much. Two days ministering to Tapsell’s tantrums and the likes of Mavis Briggs was chancy enough for anyone, let alone a nervous novice! There was nothing for it but to take them with me.
10
The Dog’s Diary
Of course he grumbled all the way down there – hissing, spitting, mewing. No chance of getting a kip. Not that I wanted one really, because I like looking out of the window and seeing all the cows and trees and sheep go by; and you never know when you might see another dog whirling past in his master’s car, and you can make faces at it and look very fierce.
Mind you, Maurice was in a different position from me – in his cat-cage on the back seat. So I suppose you canunderstand him being a bit cheesed off. He hadn’t been in a car before so I don’t expect that helped either. Of course, I’ve been in one lots of times and know all about them. But Maurice doesn’t like me knowing things he doesn’t, so that had put him in a pet from the start. The moment F.O. shoved him in that cage and I saw him scowling out through the wire I knew we were in for a bumpy ride. Not that the vicar noticed – too busy singing hymns and puffing his fags. (With that amount of smoke swirling around I’m surprised he
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