17

General Sanctuary remembered Turtle at school, long-legged, thin, and good at the high jump. He tried to find out about the funeral, but nobody could tell him anything. He was sorry that Turtle was dead.

Mr Nox thought Turtle had been about to marry rather than die, and wondered how serious the former prognostication had been. Jaraby would live to a great age, Jaraby was made like that. So, he decided, would he.

‘A bad business,’ said Mr Sole, ‘but all for the best in the long run.’ Mr Cridley agreed. They looked forward to telling Miss Burdock.

Sir George Ponders reminded his wife that they had never had Mr Turtle to dinner. ‘Poor old man,’ said Lady Ponders. ‘One thinks of these things too late. At least we can go to the funeral.’

Mr Swabey-Boyns, who had not been able to attend Old Boys’ Day because of a stomach upset, tried to take the death philosophically but failed. ‘I shall be next,’ he murmured. ‘I shall outlive no one now.’ (In fact he was wrong. He outlived all his fellows on the committee. He died at ninety-two, nineteen years later, as a result of carelessness on the part of a man in a motor-car.)

Mr Jaraby was shocked by death. Turtle had worn badly. But someone should have seen what was happening and taken him out of the Assembly Hall. No one could wish to die during a performance of The Mikado.

Mrs Strap took Mr Turtle’s will from his writing-desk and placed it in the centre of the dining-room table. She put a vase and a few pairs of scissors in a basket that already contained Mr Turtle’s travelling clock. She hunted in drawers for cuff-links and other small pieces. Finding nothing that excited her, she returned to the will. Amy Strap, for devoted services, one thousand pounds. It was she who had suggested the word devoted. She would have preferred guineas, but Mr Turtle had not seemed to understand her when she mentioned it. She left the house with the basket and a table.

Turtle died during The Mikado. They had to scrap the last act.’

‘Your cat too,’ cried Mrs Jaraby. ‘Returned to his Maker. And Basil back in residence.’

‘What residence? What do you say?’

‘Basil is with us again. He is above us now, cages of birds festoon the house. Hark, and you may hear them.’

‘Is Basil here? With birds?’

‘Be calm a moment. Sit down, compose yourself. Ask me question by question. The answers required vary.’

‘It is you who should compose yourself. You are going on in a mad way. What is all this?’

‘I am breaking news to you; why don’t you listen?’

‘What of Monmouth? Is Monmouth injured?’

‘Injured unto death. Does that mean dead? It doesn’t, does it? You missed the monster’s passing.’

‘Is Monmouth dead?’

‘I have said so with variation.’

‘Monmouth and Turtle too. My God, my God!’

‘He is not just your God. “Our God, our God!” should be your cry.’

‘For heaven’s sake, do not make a joke now.’

‘Shall we go into weeds? Is mourning the order of the day? Shall I stitch black bands to the arms of your jackets? Your style of conversation is catching: now I am asking the questions. Shall I ask them singly and get an answer?’

‘You answer me, woman: what became of my cat?’

‘Struck by a passing van, flattened beneath its wheels.’

‘Struck? How was Monmouth killed? Did you observe the accident?’

‘The foolish cat ran wild across the road. The thing was blind, you know. The van just mowed it down and proceeded on. The man was unaware.’

‘So Monmouth is dead.’

‘He was out of hand, dominating our life as he did. The house will be happier without him.’

‘I have known Monmouth for fourteen years.’

‘You nursed him when he lost an eye.’

‘What became – where is he now?’

‘In some ash-tip, naturally we know not where. I collected the carcass on your garden spade and committed it to the dustbin. I knew you would not wish to leave the thing where it was. It was unsightly too.’

‘Did you say – did you put Monmouth in a dustbin?’

‘The men came this morning. The corpse is off the premises. You do not have the sadness of mulling over the body.’

‘Did you put my cat in a dustbin?’

‘Did I not say so? I am not given to idle prevarications.’

‘A cat should have respect, as a human. I would have wished to bury my cat in the garden.’

‘With last rites? Shall we recover the flattened victim and have a vicar call? Was Monmouth Christian?’

‘Don’t go too far. I warn you, I have already taken steps to bring this folly to an end. I question a savage action: a dead cat, an old and loved pet, incarcerated in a dustbin. I do not suggest last rites or vicars. To have made a simple mound with my hands in my own garden – is that an unnatural thing?’

‘It is pure sentiment. Slop and fiddlesticks. The cat had had his innings. He is gone, thank God, and that is that.’

‘The same applies to Turtle, does it? Slop and sentiment is it, to feel sorrow at an old man’s grave?’

‘I did not say that. Do you expect me to weep and tear my hair over an elderly man I have never met? I would not put Mr Turtle’s body in a dustbin, if by chance you are thinking that.’

‘You put poor Monmouth’s, a creature you have known for fourteen years. You could not care that the man you did not know should end likewise. Do not pretend; actions reveal your nature.’

‘You are on to a faulty argument. You must bring it to its apt conclusion: would you mete out to Mr Turtle what was Monmouth’s due, a mound in your garden created by hand? Would you delve thus for the man as for the cat? You claim I see the deaths as equal. Would you be as affectionate over the man as you say I would be cruel?’

‘Turtle’s place now is the cemetery, Monmouth’s our garden. That is the natural order of things. No man buries his life’s friends in his garden. This talk of yours disturbs me.’

‘It is you who bring such talk to the surface. You imply I approve of human remains on an ash-tip. I invest you with the sweeter thought: the burial of a friend with your own hands. How can you object to that?’

‘I object to your callous treatment of my cat. Have you ever cared for a pet? Cannot you see how I must feel?’

‘You feel disgust maybe, as I have felt over the cat’s murdering ways. You may this minute strip yourself of your good clothes and build a million mounds in the garden, marking them with crosses to signify what the cat in fourteen years has killed. Why not do that to ease your mind?’

‘You are mocking my sorrow. I am brought low by sudden deaths and you jest and jeer, since you are made that way. Have you no word of comfort?’

‘I have made practical suggestions. Act on them and you may find relief. As to pets, there are new pets now in the house; you need not feel cut off from the animal kingdom.’

‘What pets are new? How can I understand if you speak in this way? You make no sense at all.’

‘I speak only repetitively. I have already said there are eight new coloured birds in cages. They are bred as pets, bought and sold in millions.’

‘Why is Basil here? If he has brought this circus with him, then he and it must go at once. I did not give any consent, I did not invite him.’

‘Your son replaces your cat. You leave in the house an animal, you return to welcome a human form. It is almost a fairy story.’

‘Basil shall not live here again. On that I am adamant.’

‘You may cease to be adamant, for Basil is here already. He is well entrenched and happy in his old room.’

‘I shall speak to him. I shall speak man-to-man. He knows my wishes.’

‘If he knows your wishes, then there is no need surely to speak, man-to-man or otherwise. He doesn’t care for your wishes.’

‘I am defied in my own house. I leave it for a day and a night and return to this chaos.’

‘Life replaces death; you must be glad of that. There is no chaos, just the simple order of a family. We each have a part to play in the future and must not interfere. There is Basil in his room, I am in mine, you are in yours. We meet in the more general rooms and honour, if we have to, another point of view. We must stick to civilized arrangements.’

‘You are telling me. You are laying down the law, usurping my position. It is up to me to say yea or nay, to send this shabby man packing. I have the right to protest at a menagerie brought into my house when my back is turned.’

‘Possession is nine points of the law. You may well have to employ the final point to eject your son.’

‘You know of Basil’s past. You know we washed our hands long since of him. By accepting him now we are adding a blessing to his dishonesties.’

‘What has he ever done? You speak of your son as though he had taken charge of a gas chamber.’

‘He has left hotels with bills unpaid; he has borrowed indiscriminately from strangers; passed cheques that were worthless. How many times have I had to pay double the amount to quieten creditors?’

‘A few seaside hotels where he was temporarily a little short. A bishop might be short of money and seek aid in his predicament. What is a father for, if not for that? If you make some instrument that damages others you are surely responsible for it? Responsibility for a son comes by the same token.’

‘One is not for a lifetime responsible for one’s mistakes.’

‘You are wrong. You blow all this up like a balloon. Who has not borrowed money? It is easy to miscalculate a cheque-book.’

‘It is not a passing error that one uses a cheque-book one has no right to use, of a bank in which one has never deposited money.’

‘You are fuzzy about the facts. You are determined to see Basil in a certain light. You embroider and exaggerate.’

‘Good God, the facts are facts, as clear as day. You speak as though I were a child.’

‘I speak to you as you are: an old man whose memory is imperfect, who rejects a failed son and determines his sins. You cannot see the larger issue. You are lost amongst the trees, while the pattern of the wood holds the secret. Do not shirk your natural responsibility.’

‘I shirk nothing. I have faced more than most men, and now I am to face it all afresh. How do we know the birds are not stolen? Has our house become a thieves’ kitchen overnight? We may be some kind of receivers.’

‘You must ask Basil outright if the birds are stolen. Since that worries you, seek assurance. I cannot imagine the stealing of birds. It would not be easy, you know.’

‘He is adept at that kind of thing. He is well trained in thieving. He will have things from the house.’

‘Then we must lock away our valuables and be on our guard. That is not beyond me. Though I think it would be less troublesome to ask Basil to leave our things alone. Shall you do that, since you brought the subject up?’

‘I shall be silent,’ cried Mr Jaraby. ‘I shall not utter a word of any kind to Basil. My displeasure shall take that form.’

‘You could not be silent. You have never been silent all your life. Pass the time of day with Basil. Take an interest in his hobby. Be kind, and you and he may be the better for it.’

‘I shall do as I please. Why should I be kind, or take an interest in flights of birds? I am not kindly disposed to him, I see no point in birds. He does no honest work, he does not toil as the rest of society. He has come home to roost like a parasite.’

‘Parasites do not roost. But you are right to say he has come home. That is the case in a nutshell. The prodigal returns, we celebrate graciously. Can you manage that?’

‘No, I can not manage that. I feel no sense of celebration, only foreboding. Too much has happened in twenty-four hours, I cannot take it in.’

‘Shall I cover the ground again? Shall we make notes on a piece of paper to help you? Your Mr Turtle dies and is carried from the audience, a cat gives up the ghost, the son with birds returns. I will tell you more, go further into detail, of how the cat looked like a tiger hearth-rug on the road, of Basil’s arrival with the cages in a taxi-cab. I gave him tea and aspirin.’

‘I do not wish to hear all this. It adds nothing. Was it a familiar van? Did the man apologize?’

‘The van drove on. It is not against the law to kill a cat, though the death of a dog must be reported. If you would like to speak of Mr Turtle’s death I will listen to oblige you.’

‘Why should you listen? You are not interested.’

‘To talk things over is often a help.’

‘Why should I talk things over? The man died. You are after some morbid details and you shall not have them. The man died and people were shocked. Is there more to be said?’

‘That is up to you. Say more and I will listen. Reel off an obituary that I may know more of the subject and come to feel shocked too. He may have welcomed death, in which case to be shocked is hypocrisy.’

‘Poor Monmouth! I cannot even count on you to keep an eye on him while I am away.’

‘In Monmouth’s case, it’s an ill wind that blows no good. For though you are saddened, I rejoice.’

‘How can you rejoice when my cat has died?’

‘Because he will leave no more hairs about the house, nor ends of fish to be trodden into the carpets and rot and smell.’

‘Is that your respect for the dead?’

‘Can you hear the birds? Prepare yourself for your son.’