writingsof a writing man
Inhumation stickIn which I am embarrassed and Harry Cat amuses the vicar You're allowed to talk to yourself when you live all alone in a tiny Welsh valley with only two cats for company and the nearest neighbour a lot more than a good shout away. Come to that, you're allowed to sing to yourself, too. Nothing like a good sing to keep the echoes lively. Anyway. It was a bright and sunny morning and I was in the middle of disposing of the morning's catch of rodent corpses deposited by Harry and Jones in a neat line at the doorstep in pre-payment for their breakfast. Jones had given each of the sad little bodies a good thump to reassure me they were completely dead while Harry watched impatiently. I'd told them what good, clever boys they'd been and ushered them into the kitchen to feed themselves silly after their exertions. I really don't like rodents. Not of any variety. If they'd keep their distance, and leave my stuff alone, I'd have no hesitation in adopting a live and let live approach. But they don't. Fortunately, Harry and Jones consider rodent decimation their bounden duty, as well as a lot of fun, so a balance is kept, of sorts. If you discount the discomfiture of the mice, the raw end of the bargain falls to me. Head inhumer of furry corpses, that's me. That's the deal. The cats execute, I dispose. There's a ritual to it of course. Any inhumation should be accompanied by a certain amount of ritual. By the side of the kitchen door I keep my "inhumation stick". Actually, it's a long-handled flat hoe, useful for all sorts of purposes. Each mouse gets the same treatment, scoop, flip, back-swing and WHACK! Off they sail through the air to lodge deep in the scrub on the bank the other side of the vegetable patch. And each gets the same benison:
"We're about the same business this morning, John, I see." A voice, completely unexpected, came from behind me. "Sh---!" I cried, turning quickly and stopping just in time. It was James. James is the vicar. You don't cuss directly at the vicar unless it's after a couple of shared pints in the pub, but then all the rules are relaxed. Jones appeared at the kitchen door, looked aghast at the intruder, and shot off to hide in the barn across the lane. Harry sauntered over, still munching, to glare first at the vicar and then, far more alarmingly, at me, the last mouse still poised ready to fire. You know that scene in Poltergeist, where the little girl catches Mommy in the act of disposing of the dead canary? Harry's unspoken disgust was streets ahead of that. But then, Harry's a consummate actor, and that little girl... Well, enough said. "Hang on, just a tick." Flip, back, THWACK! And my job was done. Harry sniffed, and stomped off in the direction of the woodshed. I was going to pay for this. First, though, my manners demanded I look after the vicar. "Why, James, this is a nice surprise! How do you mean, the same business?" James was, unusually, in full regalia, cassock and all. "Duty to the departed, John. I've got a funeral over at Pen-y-Bydder later on so I thought I'd drop in on my way to scrounge a coffee and see what's going on in the cake tin." "Oh dear, James, of course. Come on in. Anyone I know?" "I don't think so. Bevan Thomas. From Blaencou. Turned his face to the wall three months back. Nice old guy but he'd had enough and was ready to go." I lodged the inhumation stick by the side of the door and led the way, pulling out the best chair from the table so's James could get comfy. "No, I don't think I did know him. I've spoken to his wife a couple of times." "Yes, she's been good to him. To be honest I think she won't be far behind." As I washed my hands, pulled coffee and cake together and settled down at the table the quiet drifted in through the door from the valley outside. We sipped and munched companionably as the range tinkled and crinkled by our side. James liked the cottage, and its little valley, and often remarked how peaceful and comforting the place was. "You look tired, James." "Oh, nothing to worry about, I'm sure. It's been a busy time. I'm finished for the day when this job's done so I'll be able to put my feet up for a while." It looked to me as if it'd take more than a single afternoon with his feet up to ease his load. Since the last diocesan reorganization James had been left with seven churches to look after, each with its own parish, spread over a very big patch. That's a lot of parish for one unassisted bloke. A small furry shadow attracted our gaze to the open door. There stood Harry, a large mouse dangling from his mouth, glaring solidly at me. When he was sure my attention was firmly engaged, he dropped his burden, still twitching, just inside the doorway. And sat there, defiance personified, revenge exacted. "You little b___, oh, sorry, James!" A muffled snigger came from James. Harry prodded the rodent. It twitched. Harry smiled, stretched, and sauntered off. James started laughing. I was positively furious. Harry had broken all the rules. No mice in the house. Ever. And this one was huge, warm, and only very, very recently expired. By the time I'd chased Harry around the side of the house, screeching at him and waving my inhumation stick in the air, failed to catch him, of course, come back, scooped up the corpse, inhumed it, returned, washed my hands - all the work of a moment - James was shaking with mirth. "You should see your face!" "Well, at least it hasn't got tears streaming down it!" It was true. James dabbed his eyes, laughed, dabbed some more, and carried on laughing. It took another mug of coffee and a further slice of dark spice cake to calm him down. When he took his leave, off to do his spiritual duty, he looked a little less tired, a tiny bit less hassled, and much the better for a good laugh. Harry joined me on the drive to wave him off, then looked up at me, head on one side. "Oh, all right. You win. Come on, let's see if there's any Carnation milk going." The beastly little comedian yawned at me and we trudged back into the kitchen. All was quiet again. November 20, 1998
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