Robert Alter - 100 Malicious Little Mysteries

“You’ve noticed my collection,” the scarlet man said, a note of pride creeping into his voice. “Of course there are compensations to this job or no one would want it, not even me. I can truthfully say that I own the most priceless objets d’art in existence.” He stopped and sighed. “The hell of it is, there’s really no challenge to getting them. All I have to do is wish for them and they’re mine.”

“Oh, that is too bad,” Mrs. Twiller clucked sympathetically. “Takes all the fun out of it if you can’t outsmart someone.”

“Yes, it does,” grumbled the fiery one.

Mrs. Twiller made a small cooing sound and patted his arm, which made him jerk it angrily away.

“Now cut that out!” he bellowed. “See what I mean? Get a sweet little old lady down here and within ten minutes she has me all soft and mushy. I won’t have it, do you hear?”

“Oh, mercy, yes,” Mrs. Twiller said, retreating a couple of steps. “I hear.”

The man’s eyes glowed crimson. “Swear, then, that you won’t take any more merchandise from any store up there.”

Mrs. Twiller swallowed. “I swear. Oh, my, yes.”

“Then go,” roared the Master of Hades. “And see that you don’t have reason to come back.”

Mrs. Twiller went, clutching her shopping bag and scuttling along toward the escalator as fast as she could. She had a moment of panic when she discovered that the escalator moved only down, but she did find a narrow, almost unused stairway which she ascended as quickly as she could; and she didn’t stop until she reached the department-store’s street floor.

“Missed the basement again,” she puffed, but decided against going back down. She was already late for her weekly appointment with Mr. Simpson. She could pick up the cat dishes somewhere else, although she did like to give this store her business.

As she hurried toward the door, a display of silver flatware caught her eye. It was always easy to slip a few pieces of flatware into her shopping bag. But after a moment’s hesitation she walked on past. After all, a promise was a promise. She would miss these shopping trips, though. There was something decidedly heady about seeing what she could get away with. But of course there would really be no need for any more forays. Oh, mercy, no, not with what she had in her shopping bag.

Just before entering the revolving door, Mrs. Twiller paused long enough to peep into her bag at the platinum Mt. Vesuvius, the ruby statue, the diamond-studded vase, and the emerald Pan. If she was any judge of value, her cats would be well taken care of for the rest of their combined nine lives.

Humming softly and a little breathlessly to herself, she closed her bag and hurried from the store. Mrs. Twiller had had a good trip.

Little Treddington is the prettiest village you could hope to see. It nestles in the Cotswolds and the guide books describe the Church of Saint Andrews as “a little gem,” as indeed it was.

I well remember the first time I saw the village. My late husband, the Reverend Charles Framley, drove me down to see his new parish. The departing vicar, Mr. Wyland, showed us the Church and pointed out all the tourist attractions. (I am afraid that he was rather a worldly man!) He also showed us the postcards and booklets which were on sale in the church porch, but I could see that poor Charles did not approve, and so could Mr. Wyland, for he very tactfully led us across to the Vicarage. He was a bachelor but I must say that he provided a splendid tea and the house and garden were quite beautiful.

I so looked forward to living in this beautiful place and moving from the rather depressing Manchester suburb where Charles had his present parish. The thought of seeing, everyday, green fields and those neat golden cottages instead of dirt-grained houses, sustained me during the drive back to Manchester. It would almost be like going home; for I had been born and brought up in the soft lands of Surrey and to me the North would always be “alien corn”.

That was ten years ago.

We moved to Little Treddington in the autumn and soon it was the Carol Service and Christmas and taking sherry with Lord and Lady Dawson at the Manor House; then Easter and Whitsun, and then every waking minute getting ready for the Church Fete. It was always held on the second Saturday in August and opened, of course, by Lady Dawson so it had to be between the time she returned from the Riviera and before they went to Scotland — Lord and Lady Dawson are both excellent shots. I remembered that the Vicar (Mr. Wyland that is, not my husband for he never made a joke!) had said Lady Dawson really chose that day to mark the last appearance of her second-day Royal Ascot hat! Fortunately, Charles did not hear.

There was so much to be done for the Fete and so many little jealousies to be sorted out, but I do pride myself on being rather good with people, and really I felt I could take quite a lot of the credit when I looked around the Vicarage garden and saw so many happy faces behind the stalls and all the children — such a happy day for them — with their pennies and sixpences clutched in one hand while they threw coconuts or delved in the lucky dip, and Lady Dawson most beautifully dressed...

And then — quite without warning — down came the rain! I was sure that Lady Dawson’s hat was quite ruined, but she took it very well and we all ran as fast as we could into the Vicarage.

The rain stopped as suddenly as it had started and back we all went to the garden — except for Lady Dawson who had “called it a day” (as she put it) and driven home. Of course, it was rather muddy round the coconut shies and the bran in the lucky dip was a little squelchy and poor Mrs. Wills was very upset because young Millicent had left her “guess-the-weight cake” in the rain and all the icing colours had run! But there, I always say, “These little things are sent to try us.”

Poor Charles is not so philosophical and he was most upset, and the following year he started to worry about the weather long before the Fete. That year there was no rain and I thought all would be well, but it made no difference — sometimes it rained and sometimes it was fine — but every year for two weeks before our “D-Day” on the second Saturday in August, Charles would study the Weather Reports.

“Oh, I do hope it will be a fine day for the Fete,” he would say (so gloomily too), and then for the last week before the Great Day he would stand in the Vicarage doorway scanning the skies.

I remember once Dr. Brown (such an amusing man, but very irreligious I am afraid) asked him whether he was looking for rain clouds or a sign from the Almighty! My husband was not at all amused and when Dr. Brown went on, “The Devil sends sin and the Lord sends the weather and I should have thought He could have arranged one fine afternoon in return for all the work you do for Him,” poor Charles was really most upset.

“Charles,” I would say (I would never have called him Charley for I think these abbreviations are such a pity), “Charles, why do you worry so much about the weather? If it is wet we can always hold the Fete in the Village Hall.” But his answer was always the same.

“No, Maude,” he would say in his sad voice. “You know how that upsets Miss Gosling; she has such a job afterwards getting it ready for Sunday School the next morning.” And indeed it was true that on the one occasion when we did use the Hall, Miss Gosling complained for weeks!

Even after Miss Gosling died, quite suddenly, at the end of July three years ago, it was as if her ghost haunted him for he still insisted that the Fete be held out of doors.

Day after day he would open The Times and read the Weather Report (before he’d even cracked his boiled egg). Day after day he would “Tut Tut” and say, “Oh, I do hope it will be a fine day for the Fete.” Day after day he would scan the skies...