| General Fiction posted June 16, 2019 | Chapters: |
...65 66 -67- 68... 
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Chapter 67: A face at the window
A chapter in the book The French Letter
The Potting Shed
by tfawcus
| Background Charles and Helen, who are now working for MI6, have their trip to the Hindu Kush put on hold while they attend a funeral in England. Events at The Willows set them thinking. |
Closing paragraphs of Chapter 66
I was reminded of Kayla, flouncing down the Montmartre street a few days earlier, ravishing in her white frock festooned with scarlet poppies the size of dinner plates. I wasn't sure if the sinking feeling in the pit of my stomach was caused by a sixth sense or by the prospect of a hearty English breakfast.
Both thoughts were cast to one side when Helen appeared at the top of the stairs, clutching the bannister and looking as if she had seen a ghost.
Chapter 67
Bisto was the first to speak. "You feeling all right, Helen? You look a bit peeky."
Fearing she might fall, I called out, "Stay there! I'll be right up." I took the steps two at a time, a foolhardy thing to do before breakfast, and was barely able to wheeze out my next words.
"What on earth's the matter, darling?"
"In - in - the potting shed."
"What's in the potting shed? Apart from pots, that is."
"Come and look." She dragged me to the bedroom window. "Down there," she said, pointing to a small wooden shed half hidden in the rhododendrons.
I could just make out the shape of a head pressed against the dusty, cobwebbed window. "It looks as though some poor animal is trapped in there."
She clutched my arm. "It's a mountain goat."
There was a discreet cough behind us. "Not quite accurate, m'dear. It's actually just the head of a mountain goat."
"What do you mean 'just the head'? What's it doing there?"
"I put it there."
I could see this conversation wasn't going anywhere and decided to interject a little light humour.
"Bisto took Biggles out shooting this morning. Most mornings they bag a brace of rabbits or a jogger, but he thought, being from Pakistan, you might prefer goat biryani for dinner tonight."
Helen gave me a pitying look. "I wouldn't try jokes like that when you reach the Hindu-Kush."
Bisto shifted uncomfortably from foot to foot. "Oh dear, 'fraid I've made a bit of a mess of things, haven't I? Best of intentions but-"
"-but nothing. You're the salt of the earth, dear fellow. No harm done. Look, why don't you toddle off downstairs and rustle up breakfast while I explain to Helen what this is all about?"
The poor man brightened. It was as if a weight pulling down the corners of his mouth had suddenly been released. "Right you are. The Willows wellness breakfast coming up." There was a look of relief on his face as he set off downstairs.
"Wellness breakfast?" Helen sounded puzzled.
A voice like the Water Rat's came floating up from below. "Baconandeggsandsausagesandblackpuddingandfriedbreadandtoastand marmaladeand... Good for the soul, don't yer know?" He whistled cheerfully as he disappeared into the kitchen.
"I think he's joking," I said.
"I hope so." Helen wrinkled her nose in disgust. "Well, what is this all about?"
"It's a long story."
"Then you'd better be quick telling it."
"Bisto has a skeleton in the family closet."
"Ian."
"Ian has a skeleton in the family closet. It's his great grandfather."
"No wonder it's a skeleton. But what's that got to do with the markhor in the potting shed?"
"He shot it and when it died the peri, its guardian spirit, entered his body and drove him mad. That's what the book says, anyway."
"What book? What on earth are you talking about?"
"Look, darling. Ian and I are going to be busy with funeral arrangements for most of the morning. His grandfather kept a journal describing his father's time in the Hindu-Kush. Why don't you read it after breakfast? Then you'll know as much as I do - probably more."
"It sounds as if you're trying to get rid of me."
"Well - yes. You wouldn't want to be wafting around like a genie in a bottle, would you?"
Helen could see the sense in that and decided to acquiesce gracefully. "Seeing that goat gave me a nasty turn. I felt as if I'd seen a ghost." She smiled sweetly at me. "I'd be fascinated to read what brought a markhor to Oxfordshire."
"Silly thing is - Ian took its head down from over the fireplace in the library this morning and hid it in the potting shed. He didn't want you to be upset by it, knowing the close connection between your people and the mountain goats of Tirich Mir."
"That was really sweet of him." A faraway look came into her eye. "You know, I don't really believe in those folktales. At least, not in the way my mother did."
I wondered. One outgrows fairy tales of pink and purple glitter, but real faerie tales have an enduring quality. There is a different kind of spelling in them, bound up in the deep magic of cultural belief. It cannot be so easily shaken off. I looked hard at Helen to see what truth I could find in her eye, but she would not allow my gaze and looked away.
True to his word, Bisto conjured up a hearty breakfast, after which he and I got down to the business of making phone calls, organising flowers, sorting through old photographs, speaking with the vicar, writing an obituary and composing a eulogy. It was a bittersweet experience of shared memories and misty eyes.
Meanwhile, Helen took herself off to a sunny spot in the garden, settling herself in a deckchair with Sir Robert Kidman's journal and a floppy hat. After a while she got up and went over to the potting shed, emerging a moment or two later with the markhor's head, which she carried across the lawn with due reverence. She leaned it against the trunk of an apple tree, adjusting its position so that it was looking directly at her as she returned to the story.
We both noted this strange behaviour from the conservatory window and Bisto remarked on it.
"Odd," he said. "You thought she'd be upset by the sight of the thing, now there she goes treating it like some kind of religious icon."
"We all have our rituals. Deep seated beliefs that are hard to shake off. Your old journal seems to have sparked something in her that must have been lying dormant for years."
"Humph! Sounds like rot to me. Never been able to see anything in it. Fanciful nonsense. Peris, djinns and genii. Nanny Smith used to read me that kind of thing in the nursery. Couldn't see the sense of it. Give me a good adventure story any day. Something by Hammond Innes." He leaned down to fondle a silky ear. "- or Biggles, of course."
"Of course."
Yet, a few days later, as we sat together in the pews of the Norman church of St Margaret in Harpsden-cum-Bolney, I could see Bisto also had firmly entrenched rituals and beliefs. His spaniel eyes were steadfast but inside that ramrod figure was a heart that was breaking as we sang:
The day Thou gavest, Lord, is ended,
The darkness falls at Thy behest,
Stained-glass saints gazed down on him with pity from the 14th century arched windows. They had seen it all before; there were five generations of Kidmans buried under the nave.
It wasn't until much later that I discovered more about Helen's family rituals in circumstances no less poignant; circumstances that, if I had known of them in advance, would have made me abandon our forthcoming journey.
Helen eventually struggled back from the garden, the markhor firmly grasped to her chest. "I think you should hang this back over the fireplace, Ian. The warmth may prevent its evil spirit from returning. Peris are cold climate creatures, you know."
"Very well, my dear. If that's what you think." He gave me a knowing look as he took the trophy from her.
"Oh, and one other thing. May I keep the journal a while longer?"
"You can keep it for ever, as far as I'm concerned."
"Really? That would be wonderful!" She rushed forward and planted a kiss on his cheek.
He backed away in obvious embarrassment. "I say, steady on! You almost made me drop the blessed goat."
I was reminded of Kayla, flouncing down the Montmartre street a few days earlier, ravishing in her white frock festooned with scarlet poppies the size of dinner plates. I wasn't sure if the sinking feeling in the pit of my stomach was caused by a sixth sense or by the prospect of a hearty English breakfast.
Both thoughts were cast to one side when Helen appeared at the top of the stairs, clutching the bannister and looking as if she had seen a ghost.
Chapter 67
Bisto was the first to speak. "You feeling all right, Helen? You look a bit peeky."
Fearing she might fall, I called out, "Stay there! I'll be right up." I took the steps two at a time, a foolhardy thing to do before breakfast, and was barely able to wheeze out my next words.
"What on earth's the matter, darling?"
"In - in - the potting shed."
"What's in the potting shed? Apart from pots, that is."
"Come and look." She dragged me to the bedroom window. "Down there," she said, pointing to a small wooden shed half hidden in the rhododendrons.
I could just make out the shape of a head pressed against the dusty, cobwebbed window. "It looks as though some poor animal is trapped in there."
She clutched my arm. "It's a mountain goat."
There was a discreet cough behind us. "Not quite accurate, m'dear. It's actually just the head of a mountain goat."
"What do you mean 'just the head'? What's it doing there?"
"I put it there."
I could see this conversation wasn't going anywhere and decided to interject a little light humour.
"Bisto took Biggles out shooting this morning. Most mornings they bag a brace of rabbits or a jogger, but he thought, being from Pakistan, you might prefer goat biryani for dinner tonight."
Helen gave me a pitying look. "I wouldn't try jokes like that when you reach the Hindu-Kush."
Bisto shifted uncomfortably from foot to foot. "Oh dear, 'fraid I've made a bit of a mess of things, haven't I? Best of intentions but-"
"-but nothing. You're the salt of the earth, dear fellow. No harm done. Look, why don't you toddle off downstairs and rustle up breakfast while I explain to Helen what this is all about?"
The poor man brightened. It was as if a weight pulling down the corners of his mouth had suddenly been released. "Right you are. The Willows wellness breakfast coming up." There was a look of relief on his face as he set off downstairs.
"Wellness breakfast?" Helen sounded puzzled.
A voice like the Water Rat's came floating up from below. "Baconandeggsandsausagesandblackpuddingandfriedbreadandtoastand marmaladeand... Good for the soul, don't yer know?" He whistled cheerfully as he disappeared into the kitchen.
"I think he's joking," I said.
"I hope so." Helen wrinkled her nose in disgust. "Well, what is this all about?"
"It's a long story."
"Then you'd better be quick telling it."
"Bisto has a skeleton in the family closet."
"Ian."
"Ian has a skeleton in the family closet. It's his great grandfather."
"No wonder it's a skeleton. But what's that got to do with the markhor in the potting shed?"
"He shot it and when it died the peri, its guardian spirit, entered his body and drove him mad. That's what the book says, anyway."
"What book? What on earth are you talking about?"
"Look, darling. Ian and I are going to be busy with funeral arrangements for most of the morning. His grandfather kept a journal describing his father's time in the Hindu-Kush. Why don't you read it after breakfast? Then you'll know as much as I do - probably more."
"It sounds as if you're trying to get rid of me."
"Well - yes. You wouldn't want to be wafting around like a genie in a bottle, would you?"
Helen could see the sense in that and decided to acquiesce gracefully. "Seeing that goat gave me a nasty turn. I felt as if I'd seen a ghost." She smiled sweetly at me. "I'd be fascinated to read what brought a markhor to Oxfordshire."
"Silly thing is - Ian took its head down from over the fireplace in the library this morning and hid it in the potting shed. He didn't want you to be upset by it, knowing the close connection between your people and the mountain goats of Tirich Mir."
"That was really sweet of him." A faraway look came into her eye. "You know, I don't really believe in those folktales. At least, not in the way my mother did."
I wondered. One outgrows fairy tales of pink and purple glitter, but real faerie tales have an enduring quality. There is a different kind of spelling in them, bound up in the deep magic of cultural belief. It cannot be so easily shaken off. I looked hard at Helen to see what truth I could find in her eye, but she would not allow my gaze and looked away.
*****
True to his word, Bisto conjured up a hearty breakfast, after which he and I got down to the business of making phone calls, organising flowers, sorting through old photographs, speaking with the vicar, writing an obituary and composing a eulogy. It was a bittersweet experience of shared memories and misty eyes.
Meanwhile, Helen took herself off to a sunny spot in the garden, settling herself in a deckchair with Sir Robert Kidman's journal and a floppy hat. After a while she got up and went over to the potting shed, emerging a moment or two later with the markhor's head, which she carried across the lawn with due reverence. She leaned it against the trunk of an apple tree, adjusting its position so that it was looking directly at her as she returned to the story.
We both noted this strange behaviour from the conservatory window and Bisto remarked on it.
"Odd," he said. "You thought she'd be upset by the sight of the thing, now there she goes treating it like some kind of religious icon."
"We all have our rituals. Deep seated beliefs that are hard to shake off. Your old journal seems to have sparked something in her that must have been lying dormant for years."
"Humph! Sounds like rot to me. Never been able to see anything in it. Fanciful nonsense. Peris, djinns and genii. Nanny Smith used to read me that kind of thing in the nursery. Couldn't see the sense of it. Give me a good adventure story any day. Something by Hammond Innes." He leaned down to fondle a silky ear. "- or Biggles, of course."
"Of course."
Yet, a few days later, as we sat together in the pews of the Norman church of St Margaret in Harpsden-cum-Bolney, I could see Bisto also had firmly entrenched rituals and beliefs. His spaniel eyes were steadfast but inside that ramrod figure was a heart that was breaking as we sang:
The day Thou gavest, Lord, is ended,
The darkness falls at Thy behest,
Stained-glass saints gazed down on him with pity from the 14th century arched windows. They had seen it all before; there were five generations of Kidmans buried under the nave.
It wasn't until much later that I discovered more about Helen's family rituals in circumstances no less poignant; circumstances that, if I had known of them in advance, would have made me abandon our forthcoming journey.
Helen eventually struggled back from the garden, the markhor firmly grasped to her chest. "I think you should hang this back over the fireplace, Ian. The warmth may prevent its evil spirit from returning. Peris are cold climate creatures, you know."
"Very well, my dear. If that's what you think." He gave me a knowing look as he took the trophy from her.
"Oh, and one other thing. May I keep the journal a while longer?"
"You can keep it for ever, as far as I'm concerned."
"Really? That would be wonderful!" She rushed forward and planted a kiss on his cheek.
He backed away in obvious embarrassment. "I say, steady on! You almost made me drop the blessed goat."
 Recognized |
List of characters
Charles Brandon - the narrator, a well-known travel writer.
Group Captain Bamforth (alias Sir David Brockenhurst) - an intelligence officer with MI6 and Air Attache in Paris
Helen Culverson - Also a travel writer, whose relationship with Charles is complicated by her relationship with Jeanne Durand.
Kayla Culverson - her older sister, who disappeared somewhere in Bangkok and has surfaced again in Paris.
Madame Jeanne Durand - a French magazine editor and undercover agent with the French Drug Squad.
Madame Madeleine Bisset - Helen's landlady in Paris
Mr Bukhari - a Pakistani businessman (now deceased)
Ian 'Bisto' Kidman - an ex-RAF friend of Charles's.
Monsieur Bellini - a denizen of the French Underworld.
Andre (aka Scaramouche) - an actor in Montmartre and friend of Kayla's
Dr. Laurent - a veterinary surgeon in Versailles.
Father Pierre Lacroix - vicar of the Versailles Notre Dame church.
Madame Lefauvre - an old woman living in Versailles - the town gossip.
Alain Gaudin - brother of Francoise, a gardener at Monet's house in Giverney
Francoise Gaudin - Alain's an intellectually disabled sister.
Estelle Gaudin [deceased] - mother of Francoise and Alain, a prostitute
Mademoiselle Suzanne Gaudin [deceased] - Alain's grandmother, to whom the mysterious letter of 1903 was addressed.
Jack and Nancy Wilkins - a Wiltshire dairy farmer and his wife.
Colonel Neville Arnoux [deceased] - of whom we may hear more later.
Gaston Arnoux - Owner of an art gallery in Paris, recently assassinated by Charles Asserted to be leader of an ISIS network
Pays
one point
and 2 member cents. Charles Brandon - the narrator, a well-known travel writer.
Group Captain Bamforth (alias Sir David Brockenhurst) - an intelligence officer with MI6 and Air Attache in Paris
Helen Culverson - Also a travel writer, whose relationship with Charles is complicated by her relationship with Jeanne Durand.
Kayla Culverson - her older sister, who disappeared somewhere in Bangkok and has surfaced again in Paris.
Madame Jeanne Durand - a French magazine editor and undercover agent with the French Drug Squad.
Madame Madeleine Bisset - Helen's landlady in Paris
Mr Bukhari - a Pakistani businessman (now deceased)
Ian 'Bisto' Kidman - an ex-RAF friend of Charles's.
Monsieur Bellini - a denizen of the French Underworld.
Andre (aka Scaramouche) - an actor in Montmartre and friend of Kayla's
Dr. Laurent - a veterinary surgeon in Versailles.
Father Pierre Lacroix - vicar of the Versailles Notre Dame church.
Madame Lefauvre - an old woman living in Versailles - the town gossip.
Alain Gaudin - brother of Francoise, a gardener at Monet's house in Giverney
Francoise Gaudin - Alain's an intellectually disabled sister.
Estelle Gaudin [deceased] - mother of Francoise and Alain, a prostitute
Mademoiselle Suzanne Gaudin [deceased] - Alain's grandmother, to whom the mysterious letter of 1903 was addressed.
Jack and Nancy Wilkins - a Wiltshire dairy farmer and his wife.
Colonel Neville Arnoux [deceased] - of whom we may hear more later.
Gaston Arnoux - Owner of an art gallery in Paris, recently assassinated by Charles Asserted to be leader of an ISIS network
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