Trevor, William - Children Of Dynmouth

‘You like a cuppa, Mr Feather?’

Quentin declined the offer. The boy was alone in the flat in Cornerways. He’d explained that his sister was on the pumps at the Smiling Service Filling Station, even though it was Good Friday. His mother was over in Badstoneleigh for the day, seeing her sister, the dressmaker. He led the clergyman into a room that had the curtains drawn. Deanna Durbin was singing on the television screen.

‘I wanted to talk to you,’ Quentin said.

‘Is it about the competition, Mr Feather?’

‘In a way. The little girl from Sea House came to see me. Kate.’

Timothy laughed. With annoying irrelevance it occurred to Quentin that the name of the film on the television screen was Three Smart Girls, which he’d seen about thirty-five years ago, when he was a child himself.

‘Do you mind if we have the television off, Timothy?’

‘Load of rubbish ’s matter of fact, sir. TV’s for the birds, Mr Feather.’ He turned it off. He sat down without drawing back the curtains. In the gloom he was only just visible, the gleam of his teeth when he smiled, his pale hair and clothes.

‘You’ve upset people, Timothy.’

‘Which people had you in mind, Mr Feather?’

‘I think you know.’

‘There’s some upset easy, sir. There’s Grace Rumblebow down at the Comprehensive –’

‘I’m not talking about Grace Rumblebow.’

‘I give her a prick with a needle. You’d think I’d cut her foot off. D’you know Grace Rumblebow, Mr Feather?’

‘Yes I do, but it isn’t Grace Rumblebow –’

‘Unhealthy, she is, the size of her. She’s obsessed on doughnuts, did you know? Forty or fifty a day, three gallons of beer, drop dead one of these days –’

‘Why have you caused this trouble, Timothy?’

‘What trouble’s that, Mr Feather?’

‘Those two children.’

‘They’re tip-top kids, sir. Friends of mine.’

‘Timothy –’

‘The three of us went to the flicks, over Badstoneleigh way. James Bond stuff, load of rubbish really. I bought the kids Coca-Cola, Mr Feather, as much as they could drink. I explained to them about the act I’ve got.’

‘I’ve been told about your act. I’m afraid it isn’t suitable for the competition, Timothy.’

‘You haven’t seen the act, sir.’

‘I’ve heard about it.’

‘That kid’s talking through her umbrella, sir. It’s a straight routine, sir, it’ll bring the place down. D’you ever watch Benny Hill, Mr Feather?’

‘What happened to those three women wasn’t funny.’

‘It’s a long time ago, Mr Feather.’

‘I’d like you to give me the wedding-dress you got from the children.’

‘What wedding-dress is that, sir?’

‘You know what I mean. You terrorized those children, you bullied them into getting a wedding-dress for you.’

‘I got a dog’s-tooth off the Commander. Dass come up with the curtains, they’re down in the Courtesy Cleaners. I have Plant coming up with a bath.’

‘You’ve been telling lies.’

‘I definitely told the truth, Mr Feather. The Commander’s gay as a grasshopper, old Dass’s son walks in and tells them they make him sick to the teeth. I only reminded Dass about that, sir. I only explained I was listening in at the time. I didn’t make anything up.’

‘That boy imagined his father was a murderer. You made him imagine that. For no earthly reason you caused him to believe a monstrous lie.’

‘I wouldn’t say it was a lie, Mr Feather. George Joseph Smith –’

‘It has nothing to do with George Joseph Smith. The child’s father was on a train. He was nowhere near that cliff when his wife was killed. Nor were you, Timothy.’

‘I was often in the gorse, Mr Feather. I like following people about.’

‘You weren’t in the gorse then. And a murder did not take place.’

‘I heard them having a barney, Mr Feather. A different time this is, if you get me. She’s calling the girl’s mum a prostitute. I heard her, sir: “Why don’t you throw me down?” she says. He told her not to be silly.’

‘Timothy –’

‘I’d call it murder, Mr Feather. If the man was on two thousand trains I’d call it murder.’

‘She fell over a cliff.’

‘She went down the cliff because he was on the job with the other woman. He was fixing to get rid of the first one in the divorce courts. I was up at Sea House one night, looking in through the window –’

‘I don’t want to know what you were doing.’ He shouted angrily. He jumped up from the chair he was sitting on and knocked something on to the floor, something that must have been on the arm.

‘You knocked over an ash-tray, Mr Feather.’

‘Look, Timothy. You told those children terrible lies –’

‘Only I wouldn’t call them lies, sir. “I’m afraid of what she’ll do,” the man says when I was looking in through the window, and then the other woman goes up to him and starts loving him. She’s stroking his face with her fingers, a married man he was, and then the next thing is –’

‘That doesn’t concern us, Timothy.’

‘The next thing is, sir, I was there in the gorse again. She was crying and moaning in the wind, sir, up there on her owny-oh with nobody giving a blue damn about her. She went down the cliff when a gust of wind came.’

‘Timothy –’

‘They pushed her, Mr Feather. D’you get what I mean? She was fed up with the carry-on.’

‘You don’t really know, Timothy. You’re guessing and speculating.’

Timothy Gedge shook his head. It had upset him at the time, but you had to get over stuff like that or you’d go to the wall. He smiled. You had to keep cheerful, he said, in spite of everything.

‘That wedding-dress must be returned. I’ve come for that, Timothy.’

‘I was thinking maybe that Hughie Green would be in Dynmouth, Mr Feather. Only I heard of stranger things. I was thinking he’d maybe walk into the marquee –’

‘That’s nonsense and you know it. Your act has been an excuse to torment people. You had no right to behave to those children as you did.’

‘I can do a woman’s voice, Mr Feather, I had them in stitches up at the Comprehensive. I had your own two kiddies in stitches.’ He laughed. ‘The charrada of the clown, Mr Feather, if ever you’ve heard of it.’

Quentin sat down again. He told Timothy he lived in fantasies. His act had been devised, he said again, so that people could be shocked and upset. To his surprise he saw Timothy nodding at him through the dimness, before he’d finished speaking.

‘As a matter of fact, it was for the birds, sir.’

There was a silence. Then he added:

‘I often thought it was maybe for the birds. The only people who liked it was your kiddies.’

‘I’d like to help you, you know.’

‘I’m happy as a sandboy, Mr Feather.’

‘I don’t think you can be.’

‘I put a lot of thought into that act. I used to walk around the place, thinking about it. And all the time it was a load of rubbish. Kid’s stuff, Mr Feather.’ He nodded. He explained, as he had to everyone else, how his act had come about: Miss Wilkinson’s charades, the visit to Madame Tussaud’s. He explained about how the philosophy of Brehon O’Hennessy had remained with him, even though at the time Brehon O’Hennessy had seemed to everyone to be a nutter.

‘The kid remarked I had devils.’ He laughed. ‘Do you think I have devils, Mr Feather?’

‘No, Timothy.’

‘I fancied the idea of devils.’

‘Yes.’

‘The sexton doesn’t care for you, does he, Mr Feather? That Mr Peniket?’

‘I’m afraid I’ve no idea.’

‘Does he think you’re laughable, Mr Feather?’