The Triple Goddess (68 page)

This time the door opened with ease and his momentum carried him into the interior. Compared to the glare of the outside, the light within was soft and diffused by that admitted by the stained- and plain glass windows, and it took his eyes some seconds to adjust. Motes of dust swirled in the amber light and sifted down. Peering altar-wards he made out the figure of a handsome woman standing below the chancel. Her arms, which had been raised as she gestured to illustrate something to the children, dropped to her sides as she stopped in mid-sentence, becoming as still as a heron disturbed at its fishing, and trained a beady eye on the source of the irruption. The children turned from the benches they were seated on and regarded Dark with curiosity mingled with instinctive dislike of his swarthy mien.

‘Ah,’ croaked Ophelia, cracking her beak. ‘Father Fletcher, I presume?’

‘None other, madam. And you must be Mother Ophelia, and these your little charges. Please to pardon the interruption.’

Ophelia paused. ‘Children, say good morning to Father Fletcher.’

A straggly group of voices chimed dubiously as requested, as if to convey that, if it had been a good morning up to now, it was no longer.

‘Father Fletcher is an important man, children, more important than I am, man though I am not, and you must be as nice to him as you can. He comes with the Church, or goes with it, does Father Fletcher. I’m not sure which.’ The youngsters did not know what to make of this, and did not care.

A small boy stretched up his arm and punched the air several times. ‘Please, miss...Miss Feelya!’

‘What is it, Stevie?’

‘Can we hear the
Animal Alphabet
please miss?’

‘Oh yes, miss, the
Animal Alphabet
, let’s do that’, came the chorus. The children seemed relieved to have an excuse to ignore Dark and expunge his presence with something enjoyable.

‘But that has nothing to do with Scripture, Stevie, which is what we’re here to discuss. Didn’t we have the
Animal Alphabet
just last week? It’s doggerel of the worst kind, you know, and doggerel is worse than caterwaul.’

Dark winced.

‘And I’m sure Father Fletcher won’t approve of such nonsense. We can do the
Animal Alphabet
again another day.’

‘Oh do, pray, continue,’ oozed Dark, shifting his corpulence up the nave and plumping down on an empty bench across from Ophelia and facing the children, who instinctively shrank together. ‘I want to hear the
Animal Alphabet
. May I ask what it’s about?’

Ophelia put her head on one side in a characteristic pose. ‘It’s pure nonsense. I made it up one day to amuse the children, when they got bored with
The Book of Job
. Secular, I’m afraid, but then Sunday school isn’t just about religion, is it, Father? They don’t understand most of the words but it helps them with their letters, and they like the coloured chalk cartoons I drew on the easel to go with them. Very well then, boys and girls, since Father Fletcher insists, here is the
Animal Alphabet
, in which each letter represents an animal of some kind, or a bird or person or thing. Stop fidgeting, Stevie, I know the bench is hard but it won’t be for long, and anyway, you were the one who asked for it. Settle down now, all of you or it’ll be back to the Old Testament before you can say “cat’s whiskers”’. A few fast “cat’s whiskers” came from the back, quickly shushed by the others. Going to an outsize easel on the steps, Ophelia leafed through a block of cartridge paper until she reached the page on which was inscribed a large capital
A
. Next to the letter was its corresponding small, or lower-case, symbol flanked by an intelligent-looking aardvark,
Orycteropus afer
.

‘
A
is for Aardvark,’ declared Ophelia, pointing to it with a stick and facing her audience. ‘When Aalice and Aalastair had a son, they called him Aa, because they couldn’t agree on Aandrew or Aalan or Aadrian or Aalfred.’

She flipped to the next sheet, on which was represented a lacrimose-looking basset-hound.

‘
B
is for Bloodhound. A bloodhound’s ears, which drag on the ground because its legs are so short, have to be removed and washed every night because they get so dirty. No wonder the bloodhound always looks close to tears.’

Turning, and turning,

‘
C
is for Chough. The senior raven, the chough, doesn’t wear pyjamas but gets his shut-eye in the buff. Here are the feathers, hung up for the night: it would be rude to show a chough in the nude.

‘
D
is for Dodo. Dead, and the dodo, would appear to be one and the same, because the dodo is supposed to be extinct. But I’ll let you into a secret: the do-do isn’t adone-done: keep your eyes peeled and you may see one.

‘
E
is for Ermine. The vermin ermine in summer is called a stoat. In winter it grows a white coat, to make its presence difficult to det-ermine, and then it is called an ermine. Why does the stoat turn white in winter and go to live in Dunfermline in Scotland where there is a lot of snow, and change its name to ermine? Because it takes a lot of ermines to make a lady’s coat, and there’s no known antidote for a second-hand stoat.

‘
F
is for Fennec fox. You never have to speak loudly or repeat yourself to a fennec, because his ears are so big, though you do have to go to the desert to say it. The fennec never says, “Pardon?” (which would be polite) or “Eh?” or “What?” (which would not).

‘
G
is for Great Crested Grebe. The grebe lays his tufts of hair down when working, but waves it up in a punkish wave for parties, like a rooster or cockatiel. How? Why, like anyone else he uses hairspray or gel.

‘
H
is for Horsefeathers, which is an American word meaning nonsense. Have you ever seen feathers on a horse? Have you ever been to America?

‘
I
is for Idiot. Do you recognize this person? Be nice to him.

‘
J
is for Jackass. Another name for jackass is mule or donkey, animals who bray or make hee-haw noises. In Australia there’s a bird called a laughing jackass, so called because of the silly noise it makes.

‘
K
is for Kingfisher. The kingfisher is coloured bright blue, and cinnamon, and white. But while on the outside he’s very dressy, inside the hole in the riverbank where he lives the bed is never made, and the place is full of fish-bones and muck. Yuck.

‘
L
is for Loser. A loser is a person who loses things and doesn’t know where to look for them, and when he does he doesn’t recognize them. Here is a picture of a loser, lost in his own house.

‘
M
is for Meerkat. Meerkats are always getting up on their hind legs to see what’s going on, like periscopes. They hate to miss out on any action.

‘
N
is for Nincompoop, or Ninny. Nincompoops are simpletons who eat soup with a fork, and wear their best clothes to the beach. Nincompoops are always saying “Whoops!” and “Oops!”.

‘
O
is for Ooayesay! Ooayesays! are nervous creatures whose round eyes pop out of their heads with amazement. Pop! Pop!

‘
P
is for Prendergast. The woman whom Mr Smith wanted to marry insisted he change his name before she agreed. “Smith is so common!” said the future Mrs Prendergast.

‘
Q
is for Quisling. A quisle can pat its head and rub its tummy at the same time. Here is a picture of a quisle, quisling.

‘
R
is for Recluse. If you invite him to go somewhere, the recluse always says he’s too busy. Here is a picture of a recluse being reclusive, fast asleep on the sofa.

‘
S
is for our Down-land friend, the Sheep. Sheep are bred for wool and mutton, not brains. When they are lambs they do not go to school, and never have to do homework. The only things a sheep knows is what’s for breakfast, lunch and dinner.

‘
T
is for Telephone. A telephone is a parasite of the mouth and ear, and it is almost impossible to get rid of.

‘
U
is for Uvula. The uvula is a fleshy projection that hangs from the rear margin of the soft palate. If you want a thrill, try a uvula trill. Ulululululu!

‘
V
is for Vicar. The vicar is a garish Sunday bird with bright plumage that changes colour at different times of year. If you get a shufti at a vicar during the week when he’s in mufti, which means wearing plain clothes, he always looks shifty.

‘
W
is for Wood pigeon. This wood pigeon is saying, “I’m off to the zoo, Sue, to see the gnu. Would you like to come too? Please do!”

‘
X
is for Xcentric. Xcentrics are people whose minds are a jumble of odds and ends tied up with string. If you ask them a question, before answering they have to loosen knots in their heads.

‘
Y
is for Yumyum. Yumyums are always thinking about food, and the word “diet” puts them in a bad mood. Yumyums diet in between bites of currant buns.

‘Lastly,
Z
is for Zygote. Zygotes are half zebra, half goat, and when they run they wiggle their bottoms. Why? Well, you would too if you were half zebra, half goat.’

The children remained quiet throughout the
Animal Alphabet
, as entranced by Ophelia’s mellifluous voice as they were by the odd images she conjured. As soon as it was over, several of the older ones at the back whispered amongst themselves their own version of
W
for Wood pigeon:

‘Hello Sue—may I use your loo?’

‘Boo, nice to see you! Number One or Number Two?’

‘Is there a queue, Sue? The need just grew! Coo, it’s too late noo, the poo’s past due!’

Fletcher Dark gathered that this was a familiar routine, and that
The Book of Job
did not come up very often in the Sunday school curriculum; any more, he suspected, than did anything else in the Biblical Canon.

Now came a chorus of requests for something called
Bad Bob
. Ophelia looked a little pink and discomposed by her exertions under scrutiny. ‘Not today, girls and boys, not with Father Fletcher here, you’ll get me into trouble. More trouble. But now that he’s here he may wish to say something to you. Father? Should you like to address my little charges?’

The children looked blank, unsure if this was a good idea or not. They decided in the negative. ‘Please, miss, we want to hear
Bad Bob
.’

‘Mm,
Bad Bob
,’ said Dark. The seed of a thought was germinating within him as he wondered what madness he had stepped into. ‘I must say, Mother Ophelia, as a teacher I find you exceedingly liberal in your choice of educational tools. I’d be interested to hear about Bad Bob sometime. But as it happens there is a little composition of mine own, which, er, be it ever so humble, I’d like to share with you all. For the moral universe—that is after all what we were just hearing about, is it not?, for I’m not a complete
I
for Idiot—is something of which I, too, am qualified to speak.’ Swelling with determination, Dark marched to the pulpit and mounted the steps. The children became fractious and started clambering over the benches, hitting each other and pulling hair; but as he loomed over the assembly they quailed at his frightful aspect and were hushed.

The reverend cleared his throat. ‘This ditty, my dears, is entitled
King Bill
, and it is one for which I entertain a discreet sentimentality. It is an ode to the Head of the Church and Defender of the Faith. And so, without further ado, I give you
King Bill
:

‘

When Prince Bill got an F in his final exam,

His dad said, “Fact is, we don’t give a damn:

In the royal fam-illy—go search every part—

You’ll find not a one can be said to be smart.”

And since scholars familiar with the Constitution,

Knew only of standards for royal e-locution,

(Of min. eddication there being no mention)

Re Bill’s future as King, there was no contention,

Notwithstanding, though he headed the queue for the throne,

And was booked for a seat on the Stone of Scone,

It was written in permanent ink, not in stencil,

That the prince hadn’t got any lead in his pencil

So that, now wearing the Coronation Ring,

Billy, heirless, was last of a succession of kings.

His dynastic end, though not stuff of legend,

Must still be recorded and this is what happened.