“Compensation I’ll have for this,” wept Dan, tearing his hair. “She was dearer to me than my right arm, and in another couple of months I’d have tamed her.”
“Never mind,” they said, comforting him, “better so,” and they all went to Blossom’s caravan for a drink to drown the solemn thought of Shani, body and all, being lifted up to paradise.
After a while Dan stopped talking about compensation, as he thought of all the trouble he’d had with Shani, and his prickly nights in the linhay. “Women are all the same,” said Mr Blossom. “They come and they go. Eaten by tigers or fired out of guns, they’re always up to some mischief. It’s a man’s work that counts. That job you did painting my caravan now, that was a proper bit of work, beautiful. And no pay asked for it either, only an old picture of my Blodwen out of the Gentleman’s Weekly. Ah, you’ll go far, you will, young man.”
“Yes, I’ll go far,” said Dan sadly, and he wandered out of the caravan, for it was late, and started off homewards under the huge stars. But because it was late and he was tired and heartbroken, and could now sleep, if he liked, for ever under the patchwork quilt, he decided not to go home at all, but to spend the night on Shani’s da’s haystack. Up he climbed, on the feathery warmth of the new hay, and when he reached the top it seemed to him that he was not the only person on that haystack.
“Who’s that?” whispered a voice, and he felt a groping hand in the dark. He caught hold of it, tight.
“Shani, is that you?” he asked, and astonishment tipped over the anger in his voice. “What are you doing up here on the stack, giving us all the fright of a lifetime?”
“It’s my boiler-suit,” said she, between a gulp and a sob. “Came unzippered it did, when I went through the canvas, and fell off onto the tent roof. And I’ve lost my pearls, too. The old string broke on me and some of them fell into the hay. I’ve looked and looked and I can find only five. Waiting I was till all the people had gone home before I dared show myself.”
“Broke, did it?” said Dan tenderly, turning her round and feeling her to make sure it was true. “Ah there, never mind the old bit of a necklace. Shani, darling, is it? Don’t cry then, my pet, my beautiful.”
Finding her other hand clenched on the five pearls, he gently opened it and flung them over his shoulder. “Let your da’s cows eat them if they’ve a mind,” he said. “We’ve better things to do than worry after a handful of beads.” But because she still wept he promised to buy her another necklace.
Deep in its warmth the haystack held them, and if there were pearls in their bed they never noticed. Nightingales were singing and the stars flared like beacons overhead.
Tomorrow would be midsummer day.
Second Thoughts
Miss Dawson was generally wild and haggard-looking, but that Friday morning there was something so strange about her that Miss Pellet at once guessed the worst must have happened. She crossed the road and went up to her.
“Your brother?” she said anxiously, when she was within earshot. “How is he this morning?”
Matilda Dawson turned distraught eyes on her. The worst had happened. The reverend Paul had died in the night.
“How terrible,” said Miss Pellett, unaffectedly wiping her eyes, for she had been a great admirer of his, “how terrible for you, my poor Matilda. And what a loss to the village. He was such a friend, such a help to everyone.”
Matilda looked at her and said in her deep abrupt voice, “He didn’t think so.”
“What do you mean?” Miss Pellett enquired, rather startled. “Everyone has always said that we shall never have a better vicar.”
“It was just before he died,” Matilda said, wringing her hands dangerously. “I asked him if there was anything he wanted, and he said ‘Matilda, I’m not satisfied with myself. If I had my life to live again, I’d live it differently.’ ‘Nonsense, Paul,’ I said, ‘you couldn’t possibly have been a better vicar in the village. You thought of everyone, you were always working, you never did a thing for yourself. The whole village knows that.’ ‘No,’ he said, ‘I might have lived a very different life. I might have done many more things. I’m not content with myself.’ And then he sighed again and turned over and died.”
She stopped speaking and pulled out her handkerchief.
“But he was a saint,” little Miss Pellett cried indignantly, “a regular saint. It’s terrible to think of his being dissatisfied with himself. But then, I suppose the truly good always are.”
Mrs Maddison took the news of the reverend Paul’s last words differently. “Hmm,” she said, “he did all he ought, and he knew it. If you ask me, it was just pride made him say that, or else he thought it was the right thing to do. A lot of vicars do say it on their deathbeds, I believe.” And she took a cake out of the oven, as though, in her opinion, vicars were a poor lot of hypocrites.
Miss Pellett, though, was much shocked by this attitude, and hurried away to find a more sympathetic listener.
The village mourned him a long time. For it was true that he had been an excellent vicar—hardworking, friendly to everyone, and a figure that they could all look up to. They even pointed him out to strangers, for he was an impressive figure, tall, with white hair, and the face of an ascetic. There was no doubt, no doubt at all, that he was a saint.
“And the little he eat,” his maid told her mother. “Not enough to keep a bird alive, if you’ll credit me.”
The new vicar, too, was compared very unfavourably with him. Even Mrs Maddison became more kindly towards his memory.
“At least he looked like a vicar,” she said bluntly. “This new one looks more like a plumber if you ask me.”
Miss Pellett was most distressed by the change. “Going to church isn’t the pleasure it used to be,” she said, sighing, and Mrs Henderson and the Misses Guestwick agreed with her.
However, village life must go on, and one must cooperate with the vicar however disagreeable it is. After all, one can always drop in on Miss Pellett, or Miss Lemarchant for a moment or two, to lament over old times. So village life went on, as peacefully as village life ever does, and after a while, what with making the blackberry jam, and the rumour that the Saunderson baby had measles, the reverend Paul Dawson faded into the background. Occasionally Miss Pellett would revive him for a few sad and pleasurable minutes.
“When I think of how I used to see him coming down the village street every day,” she would say mournfully. “He always stopped opposite my house, you know, to look over the Coopers’ garden wall at that beautiful view. It was always the same. And then he would give himself a little shake, as though to remind himself that there were other things to be done, and go on his way.”
And she, too, would shake her head.
But these little plunges into recollection grew fewer and fewer, and by the time the walnuts had all been hulled and put away, and the leaves swept off the lawn, and Christmas was coming, she had resigned herself to her loss in silence.
One day, however, she was leaning from her front window, thinking with a vague melancholy how long it was since she had seen the reverend Paul sharing her beautiful view, when she saw a large black cat walking with an aloof and meditative air along the garden wall on the other side of the road. When it was opposite her window, it sat down with its back to her and looked down across the valley for five or six minutes. Then it rose, gave itself a little shake, and went purposefully on its way. Miss Pellett sighed, and turned again to inspecting the jam and making sure that none was mouldy.
Next day the cat passed again, and the day after. It was not until the day after that that the truth began to dawn in Miss Pellet’s mind. Then she went out the door, calling “Pussy, pussy!” but the cat had disappeared.
The day after, she had ready a sardine on a saucer, and she inveigled it into the front hall, and spoke to it passionately, imploring it to vouchsafe an answer.
“Mr Dawson!” And then more boldly, “Paul, Paul, won’t you please speak to me?”
But the cat gave her one long, unblinking stare and then walked out of the front door, leaped onto the wall and continued on its way. Every day for a week she gave it a sardine and besought it to speak, but it took no notice, and when the sardine was eaten, would walk out of the door again. But on the eighth day, worn out, probably, by her importuningl it turned, gave her another look, and said coldly, “Well?”
Miss Pellett gasped with joy. The voice was the voice of the reverend Paul. “I knew you!” she exclaimed. “I knew it was you!”
“That wasn’t so very difficult, was it?” said Paul. “Anyone might have guessed it, if they’d taken the trouble to look.” He fixed her with the eyes of the reverend Paul Dawson, grown green and catlike. “Well, since you’ve forced me into speaking, what do you want me to say?”
“Oh, but it’s so wonderful,” cried Miss Pellett ecstatically, “to think you cared for us so much that you have come back to watch over us in your present form.”
“I couldn’t help where I was born, could I?” said Paul. “It was none of my affair.”
Miss Pellett went slightly pink and said, “But it’s so comforting, to think that you are still with us, watching over us, the same as you always were.”
Paul said nothing to that. He sniffled round the sardine saucer to make sure that nothing was left, and then turned and began to walk towards the door, as though no such creature as Miss Pellett existed in the world.
“Oh,” she exclaimed, “but you aren’t going, are you?”
“Going?” he said, turning his head and looking past her. “Why not?”
“Well, but,” she faltered, “I hoped you’d come and live with me. We have tins of sardines, you know, and it’s so cold out.”
“I’m afraid that’s quite out of the question,” Paul said calmly. “I’ve promised to go and live with Mr Monks and keep down the rats in his workshop. As a personal favour.”
Miss Pellet stared at him in horror. Mr Monks was the village carpenter and a shocking character. Mrs Henderson knew the most terrible stories about him, and the idea of the reverend Paul Dawson going to live with him as a personal favour appalled her. Perhaps, though, he intended to convert Mr Monks.
“Does he know who you are?” she asked timidly.
“Good gracious no,” Paul said contemptuously. “Do you think I’d tell him a thing like that? It might put him against me. Besides, I have other things to think of than running round telling my life history to every fool.”
“But—must you eat rats?” Miss Pellett said rather faintly.
“I enjoy it,” Paul answered coldly. He yawned and then ran lightly down the front steps and onto the wall before she could stop him.
Miss Pellett stood looking after him, very much troubled in mind. It was evident that the reverend Paul’s saintliness had been somewhat blunted by the cathood which had been superimposed upon it.
But a resolve lit her face. It was clearly her duty to remind him of the true path. It could not take long.
While her courage was still strong, she went alone to call on Mr Monks. She found him in his workshop, and after first looking round to make sure that Paul was nowhere to be seen, she went straight to the point. “That’s a fine looking cat you’ve got, Mr Monks.”
“Who, Blackie?” said Mr Monks. “He is that. He’s a terror, that cat is, kill anything that walks on two legs he would, give him a chance. Rats, mice, rabbits, birds, pheasants, dogs—all the same to him. And fight! There isn’t a cat in the village that could stand up to him, not after he’s had his saucer of beer in the morning.”
“Beer!” said Miss Pellet. “Does he drink beer?”
“I should just about think he does,” Mr Monks said. “Puts away as much beer as a Christian, that cat would, and more, too. Wonderful lively he is when he’s finished what I give him. And the other day when it was flat, the way he swore! It was a lesson to hear him. Laugh! Me and Mr Sheppard thought we was going to die.”
“Is he for sale?” Miss Pellett asked, appalled but nobly sticking to her original plan.
“For sale? Not him,” Mr Monks said. “He’s valuable to me, that cat is.” He winked, and Miss Pellett stumbled out, feeling that life was too much for her. However, she went along to the shop to lay in some more tins of sardines. After all, there was always hope; perhaps the sardines would in the end wean him away from the beer.
In the shop, Miss Lampeter was talking to Mrs Fisher.
“Five chickens gone in a week!” she said furiously. “It’s my belief it’s that ugly black cat of Mr Monks that takes them. I’ve seen him sneaking around the run more than once. I’m going to watch for him, and if I catch him, there won’t be no questions asked.”
Miss Pellett ordered her sardines and went home to bed with a headache.
Paul made no appearance at her house for several says after that, but once she caught sight of him slinking furtively along the wall with a struggling, shrieking bird in his jaws. She thought deeply and passionately for a long time.
Action, however, was taken out of her hands. Next day as she passed by Mr Monks’ workshop she heard a furious argument raging inside between Mr Monks and Henry Lampeter. One or two other people seemed to be standing inside also, but which side they were taking she could not discover. She went home and looked over the clean sheets with a distracted mind. It seemed to her that trouble was brewing.
It was when she was shaking a duster out of the window that she saw something that made her blood run cold. Henry Lampeter was walking purposefully down the road with Paul struggling and squalling under his arm, and in his hand was a large stone. Miss Pellett rushed out to intercept him. “You aren’t going .to kill that cat, surely?” she exclaimed.
“I certainly am,” Henry said grimly. “Five of my best layers he took last week, and seven this, besides a couple of young cockerels, just nicely fattening.”
“Oh, but you can’t,” she said in horror. “He’s a very valuable cat, and I’m sure if he were kept in for a bit and well fed, he’d stop killing hens. You really mustn’t think of such a thing!”
“Sorry, miss,” he said. “He’s had too many of my chickens for me to feel like letting him off. Besides, once they get the taste of blood, it’s hopeless.”
Miss Pellett shuddered. He looked so indomitable, holding the scruff of Paul’s neck in a firm grip.
At this moment, Mr Monks appeared down the road.
“You’ve got that cat?” he cried furiously. “You caught that cat without my leave. You’ll just hand him over. He’s worth money to me. He keeps down the rats better than any terrier.”
“Yes, I’ll bet he’s worth money to you,” Henry Lampeter said meaningly, “and my hens are worth money to me. You pay me for my hens, and I’ll give you back your cat.”
“I’ll have the law on you,” threatened Mr Monks. “You can’t prove it was my Blackie killed your scrubby hens. You ought to build them a better run. If you kill Blackie, you’ll have to pay damages!”
“Oh, can’t I prove it?” said Henry. “Didn’t my old woman see him sneaking round the run with her own eyes? Threw a brick at him, she did, and he hopped it through the hedge as neat as you please!”
“Listen,” said Miss Pellett rapidly, “I’ll pay you for the hens and take the cat and keep him in so that he can’t get out at night. Will you promise me not to kill him? How much were the hens?”
“Well, miss,” began Henry, who saw clearly that he would never get any compensation out of Mr Monks, “those hens were valuable birds, and if they get killed, someone ought to pay for them, didn’t they?”
“Yes, yes, I’ll pay for them,” Miss Pellett said, digging feverishly for notes in her bag. She caught a sardonic gleam in Paul’s eye as he hung limp under Henry’s arm. When she produced the money, he gave a kick and a wriggle and was away over the wall and into some elder bushes before anyone could catch him.
“Well, I’ll be damned” said Henry angrily, staring first after Paul, and then at his arm, where the
blood was beginning to well in three long scratches. “I warn you, miss, if that cat takes any more of my hens, I. won’t answer for the consequences.” He dropped the stone and moved off down the road.
“And what about me?” Mr Monks demanded indignantly. “Have my Blackie taken away from me without a by-your-leave? He was a fine ratter, that cat was.”
She paid him also.
It wasn’t easy to find Paul, but she caught him that evening, stalking a starling by the cucumber frames. She took him indoors and fed him enormously, in the hope that it would check his appetite for chicken hunting. Then, rather self-consciously, she produced a little silver bowl of water, held him firmly by the scruff of the neck, and sprinkled some of it over his forehead, saying, “In the name of the Father, the Son, and the Holy Ghost, I baptise you Paul Dawson.”
Paul gave himself a shake and looked at her furiously.
“What the devil do you think you’re doing?” he said. “You might give me pneumonia.” And he washed his face violently, first with one paw, and then with the other.
Miss Pellett sighed. The christening did not seem to have had the beneficial effect that she had hoped.
However, that night, and for two or three nights after, Paul seemed somnolent and willing enough to stay in. She gave him so much to eat that he was becoming plump, but remained very taciturn.
One day as he was sitting gazing into the fire, and she was talking to him, begging him to reform—she had even tried reading him passages from the New Testament, but something in his attitude as he listened made her decide to stop—there was a knock at the door, and Mrs Henderson and Miss Lemarchant walked in.