King Rat

She knew that Reverend Trout had none of the qualities of her husband, dear Theo, none of his richness of voice or his Godliness or his humility or his saintliness. But in war times, one cannot be too choosey. And though Reverend Trout was nearly seventy and his sermons long and droning and his theories on how the flock should be looked after were immoral and lax, he was the best she could find. After all, she told herself, it was her parish. And the parish had been in her family for generations, the Rectory, the Church, the surrounding lands, and the village of Tuncliffe, and Tuncliffe Manor where her brother was Squire.

She could just see Reverend Trout standing at the Church door—and such a lovely Church, built by Roger, Ninth Squire of Tuncliffe in Elizabethan times—old and bent and droning to the flock as they left to go home, precious few now that the villagers had gone to war and the girls had gone to the factories, to the hotbeds of sin in the cities and towns. Disgusting.

Well, she was content that there was a God in Heaven and He would have vengeance on those who sinned with their flesh. Disgusting. No spirit or backbone to this modern generation. Dancing on Sundays and not reading the Good Book. Not like in her day. Oh no. Well, they deserve everything they are going to get.

Alicia was sure of God’s vengeance. She was as sure of her place in Heaven, and certain that she and the Reverend would sometime stand before His Majesty and He would bless them for carrying His word and keeping His faith while they were mortal.

She went to the privy, disgusted that the flesh was so demanding. Everything physical was of the devil and the pure in heart had to be on guard eternally. The disgusting clothes that people wore nowadays showing themselves to all and sundry. Bathing costumes and low cut blouses and silk stockings. Disgusting.

As she walked back to the kitchen door, Alicia was glad that she had been brought up in the truth and the pure spirit. No gaudy clothes for her. Sensible woolen underclothes, combinations, and sensible bloomers. Sensible flat shoes and thick wool stockings. And knowing the Bible so well. She smiled, remembering her father, the Squire. Firm, upright, reading the lesson on Sundays, and all the services every Sunday, going to Church five times, her brother and her beating the boys and girls of his village if they didn’t come to church for every service. And being so near to God. How lucky you are, Alicia, how lucky to know that you haven’t strayed. That you’re one of the good and you’ll live in heaven for eternity.

Reverend Trout came in tiredly. He was feeling all of his years and he sat down at the table, hating the square, massive ponderous woman who set the plate of fish before him. But he hid his hatred, for he was glad of the parish and the two pounds per week he received from her, less ten shillings for his keep. He liked Tuncliffe; it was so old and beautiful and quiet and gentle. It was like his old parish in Dorset, but that had gone long since, like his wife and his child. Both dead, long since.

“How nice,” he said politely. The fish was haddock. It was old and stank and lay in a pool of graygreen slime of well-used congealed fat. The Brussels sprouts were boiled, boiled to that perfection of tastelessness only the English call cooking. Also on the plate were two soapy boiled potatoes, wet and slimy. A piece of bread and margarine. Sunday lunch, and it was always the same.

True, we are at war, he told himself, a little unhappily, but the war had little to do with it, as Tuncliffe was a dairy farm and the government allowed the farm to keep some of its produce, butter, eggs, bacon, pork, meats of various types and chickens and eggs and there was also a wealth of partridge and pheasant in season. There was plenty, but the plenty was for the Squire’s table and Mrs. Drinkwater always had her meals at the Manor.

He only got his rations. Sometimes he ate with one of the parishioners in the village, but this was rare and the village had many children from the big cities billeted on them. So the little food was distributed. To them. But the Squire entertained. Once a month he was invited to dinner at the Manor. The first Monday of the month. It was a custom from time immemorial.

But today’s Sunday was not the first Sunday. And tonight he would have Bubble and Squeak. It was his usual Sunday dinner. Boiled cabbage and Brussels sprouts leftovers mixed with more of the soapy potatoes—when there was a whole storehouse full of last year’s crops, but these had to be kept, kept usually until they were rotten, and then given to the pigs to make them fat and rosy and healthy—and this mixture of cabbage and potatoes was burnt-fried by Mrs. Drinkwater’s indelicate hand. She always prided herself that she looked after the Reverend Trout herself. It was a penance that she did, hoping thereby to placate the evil spirits that inevitably surrounded him and his immoral ways.