Notwithstanding (23 page)

Three hours later, and by now seething with rage, Jenny had still not managed to locate anybody in the Inner London Education Authority who knew anything at all about how they acquired or disposed of musical instruments. She had been passed from one person to another, rung dozens of different numbers, and been told, ‘Oh, that’s not our department. Why don’t you try so-and-so? Hang on, I’ll see if I can find the number.’ Then she’d hear her interlocutor calling out to the other members of the office, ‘Anyone know so-and-so’s number? Anyone know who does musical instruments?’

Jenny gave up, and listened to a young fellow with huge sideburns and curly long hair fumbling his way through ‘Für Elise’ on one of the Spanish guitars. He was the one who always broke his D string and had to come in for another one. Last time she’d persuaded him to buy two. More often than not he appeared with a large, patient golden retriever that lay down and sighed until his young master had tried out all the guitars that he couldn’t afford. When he had finished the little bit of Beethoven, she said, ‘You don’t know what a relief that is. If I hear “Stairway to Heaven” one more time, I’ll scream.’

The young man smiled. ‘Lucky you warned me. I was going to play that next.’

Just then the policeman, having disposed of the General, strolled past the window of the shop, and
Jenny
ran out and buttonholed him. He came in and looked at the clarinet, with its stamp.

‘It’s a good one, is it?’ he asked. ‘Expensive?’

‘Yes,’ said Jenny, ‘these are worth a lot. They’re very sought after.’

‘Well, madam, you should ring this customer up, and tell her that you can’t buy it without a receipt, and she’ll have to come in and fetch it away if she hasn’t got one. You let me know when she’s coming, and I’ll be here to ask a few questions, or one of my colleagues will.’

Jenny took his name and number, and duly rang the vendor, who seemed quite distressed. ‘Oh no,’ she said. ‘Oh no. I don’t think I’ve still got the receipt. I got it last year, and then I never played it. I’ve no idea where the receipt is.’

‘Well, I’m sorry, madam, you’ll have to come in and get it. We can’t buy instruments without one. Have you any idea when you can come by?’

‘Well, I have an appointment for the optician’s tomorrow at twelve, so I can come at about half past. Is that all right?’

‘That’ll be absolutely fine,’ said Jenny. She put down the phone and then picked it up again, leaving a message for the policeman at the station. The young man played the first bar of ‘Stairway to Heaven’, and Jenny put her fingers in her ears. ‘Only joking,’ he said, putting the guitar back on the wall.

‘I suppose you want a D string,’ said Jenny.

‘A whole set this time,’ he said. ‘I’m feeling rich.’

The following morning the policeman was in the shop, and the clarinet was on the counter when the woman came in. She looked at the policeman, and then at Jenny. The policeman said, ‘Is this the lady concerned?’ and Jenny nodded and said, ‘Yes.’

The policeman addressed her. ‘Madam, I have reason to believe that you may be in possession of stolen property, namely this here clarinet, and that you may be committing an offence by trying to sell it.’

The woman’s reaction was surprising. She began to laugh.

‘Madam, this is serious,’ said the policeman. ‘This is no laughing matter.’

‘It is! It is!’ said the woman, sitting down abruptly on the stool normally occupied by guitarists. She snorted with laughter, and began to fumble in her handbag.

‘Madam, you must stop laughing,’ said the policeman.

The woman said, ‘You think it’s me? Me selling stolen property? Me? Me? Oh that’s rich! Oh dearie me, how funny.’ She sat and giggled, fumbling in her bag until she brought out a note. ‘I found the receipt,’ she said, handing it over.

Jenny took it and handed it to the policeman. Together they looked at it. It read: ‘One Buffet RC clarinet, sold at auction.’ At the top of the notepaper was stamped ‘Guildford Police Auction’.

‘Oh Christ on a bicycle,’ said the policeman.

After the policeman had gone, Jenny apologised to the woman, and they laughed about the incident together.

‘The look on his face!’ said Jenny. ‘It was priceless! His ears went red!’

‘Does this mean I can sell the clarinet?’ asked the woman. ‘Only, I bought it last year, thinking I was going to make the effort, but I never got round to it, and now this wonderfully good flute has come up. I need the money. I couldn’t bear it if someone else got the flute. It was designed by Marcel Moyse. It’s got funny little platforms all over it, to rest your fingers on.’

‘You’re a flautist?’ asked Jenny. ‘Are you local? Are you mad, and do you play out of tune and breathe in the wrong places? Do you have much spare time? Do you play with anyone? Have you got children? I’m Jenny, by the way. I’m an oboist.’

‘An oboist? And you’re asking me if I’m mad?’

‘Look, it’s lunchtime. I’m off in a minute. Why don’t we go and have a baked potato at Fleur’s?’

‘Just steer me away from Record Corner,’ said the woman.

‘Oh, me too,’ said Jenny, ‘don’t let me go near it,’ and they hid their faces in their hands as they passed the Lloyds Bank at the corner of Pound Lane.

SILLY BUGGER (1)

IT IS SPRING
, when the Surrey countryside is burgeoning extravagantly with new life. There had seemed to be almost no wood pigeons during the winter, but now, unaccountably, there are entire flocks of them in the fruit trees and on the lawn. The tumescent grass grows up behind the mower even as it mows. The cat brings in two baby rabbits a day, and crunches them down like carrots, head first. By the end of the day only two cotton tails and two green bags are left, but the cat is still demanding its usual ration of Felix and biscuits. The pheasants that have survived the last season’s holocaust strut ridiculously in the orchard, the males engaging in combat, while the females wait to be covered. The voice of the turtle is heard again in the land, but for the last time, because the turtle doves will not come again in subsequent years. They are exterminated pointlessly but
systematically
by the Maltese while en route from Africa.

The fruit trees clothe themselves in frothy pinks and whites, as if for a wedding with the summer. Bluebells burst from the floor of the woodland, and nettles and Jack-by-the-hedge overwhelm the ditches. The air is heavy with the rich whorehouse smell of lilac. Flies come out of hibernation in the window frames, and desiccate on sills.

Amid this grotesque natural prodigality, death pokes about with a stick. A young sparrowhawk lies dead at the edge of the field. Robert picks it up and thinks it is the most beautiful thing he has seen since the day that he landed the Girt Pike. A thrush falls from its nest and expires in the brambles below. A barely fledged pigeon falls directly in front of a foxhole. Two moorhens disappear from the village pond. The road is scarlet with gory pancakes that had once been rabbit kittens and hedgehogs. A baby fox is lost, and the Major slows down carefully, as does Polly Wantage, but not long afterwards it is run down by one of the nuns from the convent, whose mind is obliviously on higher things. The hedging and ditching man offers her the consolation of his philosophy, and promises that he will bury the little corpse, but after she has driven on he picks it up by the tail and swings it into the trees behind Mrs Mac’s house, where it is gourmandised by rats. The General’s dog, Bella, finds the
body
and rolls in it, so that she has to be exiled to the garden shed until the stench wears off.

Spring, ambiguous equally in beauty and horror, bears in on Robert. Everyone knows that he can’t help looking after young or wounded birds, and he and his Uncle Dick have even knocked up a little bird hospital in the garden, made of one-by-two and chicken wire. So it is that John the gardener, who works on the Shah of Iran’s stud farm in Munstead and who lives in one of the other council houses near the Institute of Oceanography, comes round one evening, cupping something black and fluffy in his hands.

‘The dog brought this in,’ he says to the young boy. ‘I put it back out so ’at its mother could come for it, but then the dog brought it back in again, and I thought it might be yours.’

Robert is puzzled. ‘Why would it be mine?’

John says, ‘Well, it is now, boy.’ He advances it, and Robert takes it carefully. It is a young rook, with a full-sized head, a small body and a very short stumpy tail. ‘It’s half fledged,’ says John. ‘I reckon you should be able to do something with it. It’s not scared at all. Good sign, that is.’

‘I had a pet jackdaw once,’ says Robert.

‘Same idea, this is,’ says John, ‘except different.’

‘Thank you,’ says Robert, and takes the bird indoors.

‘Oh, not another one,’ says his mother insincerely, glancing up from the sink, where she is scrubbing the green rings off the flowerpots.

‘I’ve never had a rook before,’ says Robert, in self-justification.

‘Must be from the elms behind the water tower,’ says his mother. The water tower is a notorious local landmark. It is distinctly phallic, especially now that it has been painted pink. Nearby are elms that have been a rookery for a hundred years. ‘Maybe you should take it back there and let the mother find it.’

‘I’ve tried that with birds lots of times,’ says Robert, ‘and they always die. The RSPB only tell you to do that ’cause they don’t want everyone turning up with little birds for them to look after. I don’t think they care about birds at all.’

His mother has heard this speech before, and she shrugs. She suspects that he might be right. Robert has successfully brought up quite a few birds over the years, but he did once kill a thrush by feeding it too many worms. Uncle Dick says that some little birds don’t naturally know when to stop. Rooks do, though. They eat more and more slowly and hesitantly, and then stop.

Uncle Dick has spent fifteen years in London, and now he talks like a Londoner, but he has come home to Notwithstanding because of ‘something to do with a woman’. He enjoys being back home,
especially
the evenings gossiping and drinking beer with barley-wine chasers in the Chiddingfold Ex-Servicemen’s Club, which does not seem to have any connection with the services at all. For all anyone knows, it might have some ex-servicemen among its members. It has two distinct classes of clientele, the older men who sit at the bar and booze for hour after hour, and the younger people of both sexes who like to dance and fancy each other. Abba’s ‘Dancing Queen’ gets played several times a night in the hall at the side. There is a lovely dark-haired Polish girl who dances to it and fills every boy’s heart with longing.

Uncle Dick works at the West Surrey Golf Club, where there is a special hut for the artisans, in compensation for not being allowed in the clubhouse, and he spends all day happily driving around on large mowers, except when it’s raining, when he sits in the hut smoking roll-ups, eating Rich Tea biscuits, and drinking large cups of strong coldish milky tea with four sugars. He sells all the lost balls he finds to Bob French, the club professional, who sells them on to the members, so that occasionally, for a small consideration, a golfer is fondly reunited with a Dunlop Warwick or a Spalding Top Flite that had been presumed missing for ever. The ones that are too cut up for resale, Uncle Dick gives to Robert, who dismantles them, adding the strange squashy bags in the middle to his unusual collection. Just now Uncle
Dick
is spending most of his spare time constructing a proper golf green on the lawn of Mr Royston Chittock, a recent arrival from London who is planning to spend his retirement in the village. ‘Now there’s a genuine silly bugger for you,’ says Uncle Dick, whenever the subject of the newcomer crops up.

Uncle Dick is enthusiastic about the new rook. He and Robert are on their hands and knees in the hallway, gazing down at it in the log basket, where it sits in the middle of the heap of long grass that Robert has torn from the verge side. The little bird is perfectly calm, exuding dignity and self-importance. Its disproportionately large head, hunched into its shiny black feathers, combined with its pert insouciance, create an impression that is very appealing. ‘Sweet, isn’t it?’ calls out Robert’s mother from the kitchen.

‘It’s got eyes like Elizabeth Taylor,’ says Uncle Dick. ‘They’re violet.’

It is true; the bird really does have wonderfully violet eyes. ‘Let’s call it Lizzie, then,’ says Robert’s mother, but Robert demurs. ‘It might be a boy.’ In any case, Robert has a private superstition that you shouldn’t name a baby bird immediately. If you do, it always dies.

‘How do you know if it’s a boy or a girl?’ asks Uncle Dick.

‘Wait and see if it lays eggs,’ calls Robert’s mother from the kitchen.

‘Nah, you know what I mean, before that.’

‘I asked the vet once,’ says Robert, ‘and he said that the only way to tell is to cut them open and take a look.’

‘Got a Stanley knife, love?’ jests Uncle Dick, and Robert pretends to punch him in the arm.

The older man and the boy gaze down at the serene little bird with broad, soppy smiles on their faces, and then, quite suddenly, it emits a squawk so loud and alarming that the two leap backwards, as shocked as if they had been punched in the face. ‘Bleedin’ ’eck,’ says Uncle Dick. ‘That gave me shock an’ a narf.’ The fledgling emits another disproportionate squawk, and Dick says, ‘Noisy bugger. Must be hungry.’