The Triple Goddess (65 page)

Except when they were roasting on a spit, she reflected. In Hell there were so many bishops they were hard put to find enough labours for them all to do; one only had so many salt mines. The Department of Corrections—it was such a nice euphemism—had more staff dedicated to the episcopal category of soul than it did to any other, in a ratio of four to one. Bishops and higher: the devil lady had had an archbishop confirmed to her credit by the Damnable Deaths Review Board, known to all as the O Sole Mio, in her early successful career; and one of her closest coups, the one that would have made her for death, had been when she nearly nailed a Pope who had been both married and had several illegitimate daughters. But although the Pope still ended up in Hell, labelled Sextus the First, the DL had lost him because he was poisoned by his wife.

But that was ancient history and the devil lady smiled, her good humour restored. ‘Well, that’s enough said for now. But as we get to know each other better, Effie, and believe you me we will get to know each other better, there are some fascinating items I might be prepared to share with you. Declassified material only, of course, nothing controversial. Damn me for being such a bigmouth. But for now, just to show what a reasonable person I am, so accommodating of local sensibilities, despite the unofficial and unorthodox nature of this encounter I’ll take the opportunity to tell you that, on a pro tem basis only, I’m prepared to let your Ophelia continue in her duties in her capacity as stipendiary curate. Shall I repeat that or put it in words of one syllable? Effie, I am not reassured by that uncomprehending expression on your face. O-phe-li-a can stay on for now, how’s that? But because I’ve heard that she’s something of a loose cannon, lowly hedge-priest though she is, I’m holding you personally accountable for keeping her under control. You’ve had to do that rather a lot over the years, I understand, so keep up the good work. Advise her to be very careful what she says in her sermons, for both your sakes. My moods can change very quickly, Effie, just so you know.

‘But fie on me for gabbing on like an old woman! Ah. Odd as it is that we should end this impromptu tête-à-tête as we began it with passing reference to the weather, Effie, I will observe that it has suddenly become very dark as in black outside. I get a distinct impression of inspissated gloom. Which doesn’t bode well for your return journey. It wasn’t in the forecast, as I’m sure you know, good peasant stock as I’m sure you come from, or you would have deferred your visit.’

Effie turned to look and, indeed, a very large black cloud was occluding the sky and some very big raindrops were rolling down the window-panes. Already furious with herself for not having got a word in for longer than she never did not get a word in, this caused her to frown deeply.

The DL smiled at her vexation. ‘Don’t let a drenching make you forget what I said about Ophelia. Warn her that if she steps out of line she’ll become very non-stipendiary and non-curatorial in a hurry. If that doesn’t sound like a threat I can assure you it is, and only an intimation of what will follow.
Nemo me impune lacessit
, as they say in Bonny Scotland. Of course she shall comply. As I understand it she’s on thin ice as it is, having only the Bishop’s permission and not a licence to officiate, so her position is agreeably tenuous. In short, may I suggest that it is very much in Ophelia’s interests, and yours too if you value your, er, friendship with her, to make yourselves agreeable to the Reverend Fletcher Dark. Ophelia takes orders from him now. I have no interest in the man from a personal perspective, you understand, only the job he does for me. You on the other hand share with him an interest in the culinary arts, in that you like to cook, and he likes to eat, if that’s not too much of an understatement; so yours could be marriage made in H…. He’s a bachelor, you know.’

Effie shouted, ‘Let’s get back to the reason I came. Our vicar was a good man! There was no reason for anyone, least of all you, to give him the heave-ho. He’d been here for decades and he was very effective.’

‘By effective you mean he did what you told him to.’

‘Up yours. Nobody believes that story you put around about him and his wife. How dare you come around here raising Cain!’ The DL’s eyes widened slightly with surprise. ‘Ophelia’s extremely popular in this community and people’ll do anything to defend her. If you attempt the same thing on her as you did the vicar, try to give her the bum’s rush, you’ll have a fight and a half on your hands.’

The DL was miffed and sniffed. ‘The way I see it, I gave them a pretty sweet deal, old what’s-his-name and his wife. Better than they could have afforded on a Church pension. What
were
their names?’

‘The Reverend Nathaniel Posey and his wife Laetitia.’

‘Quaint. I can’t say the Poseys looked after this place very well, it was a disgrace, cost me no end of trouble and money to fix it up, much of which is still unreimb…. And that parrot of the old man’s looked as though it had psittacosis, not healthy, causes pneumonia in humans, I once lost a sou….’

‘Listen, his career wasn’t over. He was a Doctor of Divinity and about to be made a canon. And I liked The Rectory the way it was instead of filled with all this poncey crap.’ Effie waved an arm round the room and knocked a terracotta statuette of Apollo off a rosewood table. It broke. ‘Sorry. Good thing it wasn’t valuable. Maybe it can be repaired.’ She finished Apollo off with a stamp of her foot. ‘If it was it ain’t now and it can’t be.’

As horrified as the devil lady was at the destruction of her prized Etruscan artefact, she realised it was important that she maintain her poise. The fireworks could come later and in a less precious environment. In a strangled voice she said, ‘Rather like your poor broken canon-in-waiting. Pity. Had I known you thought highly of him we could have debated liturgy together over hot toddies on long winter evenings.’

Effie clapped her hands impatiently to her sides as if they were the spurs she came without. ‘Spare me your sarcasm. As for your man Dark, I’m going to…I’m going to bake his balls in a cherry pie and send it round for your dogs to eat.’

At this the manservant, who had been standing to attention by the door throughout the encounter pretending that he was not listening, emitted a staccato laugh. Effie, encouraged, drew herself up to her full height, thereby adding a half inch. ‘Hey, you might think you’re a big noise in your impressive new residence here, Mrs Lady of the Manor, but you’ll soon see what we’re made of. This community will ram that tail of yours so far up your fundament that you’ll be using it as a tongue. Nathaniel warned me about you before he left. You’re bad news.’

The patina of the devil lady’s demeanour dulled and the muscles of her face worked. ‘I don’t think you have cause to be so confident, Effie. Believe me, you don’t want me as your enemy, more than you can avoid it. Those who go out looking for trouble are more of a gimme, to use a golfing metaphor, than one can ask for, and count for fewer points. There are no mulligans or second chances, only holes-in-one, in my… Blast. Anyway, I hate golf, nasty proletarian and badly dressed activity. Now see here, Effie. You obviously have an exaggerated sense of your own importance. This is my village, and the church too, neither of which were ever yours, nor will they ever be, for me to do with what I want. And I want much.’ She lightened. ‘Call me old-fashioned, but principled disagreements are one thing…these incivilities are unbecoming.’ They certainly were, she thought. Mud-wrestling with the Effies of this world was far beneath a tenured devil from her world, which was a world where there was a lot of Beneath.

Effie snorted. ‘Balls to that too. You may consider my visit here today a direct challenge. Choose your weapon, or get thee hence before we make you wish you’d never set hoof on our turf. You’re the very Devil, you are.’

The DL tucked her patent leather shoes under her chair. ‘You flatter me. More than the prospect of hubris obliges to assure you that I am not. And there I go again.’ She looked aslant at her manservant under half-lowered eyelids.

‘A pox on you!’ barked Effie. ‘Evil is what you are! Now you listen to me. Even if you were the Devil himself we’d have your infernal arse in a sling and baked as hard as one of my rock cakes on an off day, in an oven where even you can’t stand the temperature.’ Despite herself, the devil lady winced and a disagreeable chill ran down her spine. ‘Yes, Mrs Lucy-Lady, you’d better look out your asbestos knickers instead of those pink frilly ones you were wearing the other day, because we’re going to blacken your backside to charcoal and show you up for the diabolical disaster you are.’

A rattling sound came from the DL’s throat. This was too close…or was it far?...from Home. Through gritted teeth she said, ‘Alimentary matters seem to be both an occupation and a preoccupation of yours, Effie. The latter is not drawing-room conversation and I would remind you that hospitality only goes so far, especially since I didn’t invite you and you should not have been admitted.’ This time she glared at her manservant, and he shuffled his feet. ‘But as to your rock cakes. On an off day? I can’t imagine there are many “on” ones.’

‘Ha! Never say you weren’t warned. They look good, in fact they are good, usually, being made with what Ophelia calls “Good Synergies”, and she does often take a hand in the mixing. We say that my rock cakes are indigestible by people who don’t have the constitution for them. Nothing to do with my baking ’em too long. It’s true, that lawyer who divorced my friend Marge he ate one soft as the butter that went into it it was I’d heard the timer go off sometimes I don’t when I’m on the phone so I was exhornerated they said he died of acute appendicitis but that’s more than
you
need to know and in your case I’ve no doubt that one of my certifiantly softest rock cakes’ll rack you with agony until you wish you were dead or in your case deader I’ll let myself out. Like Mrs Piggott says, my rock cakes are to die for.’

Flouncing to the door Effie shoved the serving-man in the chest, so that he staggered and only saved himself from falling over by clutching at the wall. Never before had he been made such a professional fool of.

To Effie’s surprise, outside the black cloud had disappeared and the sun was shining. With some difficulty she regained command of her horse, which had detached its reins from the tulip tree by dint of chewing through them, and was now consuming a herbaceous border while the dogs cast apprehensive glances at the house. Heaving herself into the saddle with as much dignity as she could muster in case she was being watched from the window, which she was by both the devil lady and her manservant, she headed home not unpleased with the way things had gone and looking forward to telling Ophelia—whom she had not apprised of her intention—all about it.

Chapter Seven

The Reverend Ophelia Blondi-Tremolo had once gone AWOL from the priesthood, many years before when she was still quite young in Orders. At the time she was reckoned to be one who might rise in the profession, a potential star in the ascendant, notwithstanding the Establishment’s reluctance to countenance the admission of women to the ranks of the clergy. But Ophelia soon decided, after she had survived her first curatorial assignment and was assigned a small parish of her own in the West Country, that several key requisites of a successful career in the Church, those of diligent attention to paperwork, and observance of protocols, were not to her taste.

While the Church was prepared to tolerate gay, atheist and agnostic priests, and as few women priests as were necessary to quell the fires of discrimination—similar to the number who were reluctantly admitted by membership committees to the male bastions of certain London clubs—it lashed itself into a frenzy over clerics who did not respond to phone calls and messages; who did not answer mail, write memoranda, and keep up a flow between the alpha and omega of their in- and out-trays. It took an even dimmer view of anyone who did not have a desk on which to put the basket receptacles for such items.

The numerous angry telephone calls and follow-ups that Ophelia received from exasperated churchmen who had a proper respect for organization...individuals who had built careers founded upon the timely completion of reports, agendas, questionnaires...never met with any meaningful response, no matter how much they fussed and fumed and rated her for her lack of compliance, and uttered what those in Orders do as a substitute for curses, profanities, and blasphemies.

Tiny parish though hers was, the Church of England had never deemed the volume of paperwork it dumped on its ministers to be proportionate to the size of each living. Whether one was running a diocese or the smallest parish in the country, it made no difference: the bureaucratic burden, which every true professional was supposed to shoulder with joyful ease, was the same.

At the large rented house (the village was too small to have a rectory) that Ophelia shared with a dozen or so—the number varied from day to day—bohemian friends who could not be described as out of work because they had never had jobs or applied for employment, letters and forms and circulars and updates and enquiries and bulletins and reminders and threats from the rural dean’s and archdeacon’s offices rose in columns everywhere, the pages solidified like papier mâché or plaster of Paris by the humidity of summer and damp of winter. Cupboards were filled so full that one could not open a door without being inundated by a cascade of folders. The upstairs remained warm in the coldest of weather, thanks to the filled cardboard boxes that insulated the attic and helped to keep the electricity bills down.

Ophelia’s filing system at her shared accommodation was simple, and it solved the occupants’ quandary as to what to do for furniture, which even as a cooperative they were too poor to afford. It involved the laying of a foundation in a corner, against a wall or anywhere that the resultant edifice might provide a useful ledge, shelf or platform; and building upon it until it had reached the desired height or began to block the light. There was never any shortage of raw material, for nothing was ever thrown away, and when it was complete a new base was started elsewhere. Visitors surmised that the yellowed sheets at the bottom of each pile were made of papyrus, and those in the middle written and printed in archaic characters with
f
s in the middle of words instead of
s
s. When negotiating passage about the house one had to slalom around these obstacles, which were often in inconvenient places. So solid and broad were the stacks in the living and kitchen and scullery areas that they were used to put the television and supper trays and coffee mugs and dirty plates and cutlery and cooking pans on.