King Rat

The old man sighed, and forced himself to eat. It was all he would get. He was thankful that he was old, and near the grave, and thankful he needed little to keep his thin blood circulating his thickening veins. He did not hope for death, in any way. He liked life. He gloried in life. But he would be content to die. When his time came. Then she put down the rice pudding. It was warm and lumpy—a sludge of condensed milk. He picked at it, then pushed it away. “Thank you,” he said, “but I’m not too hungry.”

“That’s all there is.”

“That did me very well, thank you, Mrs. Drinkwater.”

He got up and found his pipe. On Sundays he could smoke three pipes to celebrate the Lord’s day. The rest of the week he could only afford one, but today, one after each meal. He knew that Mrs. Drinkwater disapproved of his smoking on Sunday. She had said so many times. And she would not let him smoke in the house—“makes the place smell like the halls of Babylon” she always said with a twist of her thin lips.

Reverend Trout sighed inwardly, pitying the woman. But who was he to judge? Perhaps she was right to be so firm.

He went out of the Rectory putting on his scarf and topcoat and cap. “I think I’ll take a little walk,” he said. “Thank you for an excellent lunch.” Then he made his way down the lane, past the hedge rows flicked here and there with spring growth. Beside the rutted lane, the gentle meadows rolled and dipped under the gentle drizzle. Crisp and clean. He quickened his pace slightly as he crested the hill and looked down on the hamlet of Tuncliffe nestling the oaks. He took out his watch and peered at it rheumily. Happily he noticed it was only twelve fifteen. Good. An hour and three quarters to closing time. The little pub, the Cow’s Bell, would be warm and easy and the Squire would be there and he would have a pint of mild and bitters with the Squire and they would play darts and even perhaps some shove halfpenny and they would have a fine time, he and the Squire and the villagers. Warm and content and far away. His arthritic fingers tightened on the shilling he had in his pocket. Perhaps he could afford one of those wonderful sausage rolls old Mister Wethersby, the Innkeeper, made. No. He better keep the shilling. Perhaps the Squire would offer him one. That would be nice. Perhaps he might beat the Squire twelve games in a row and that would make a shilling, for they played for a penny a game. Reverend Trout saw nothing wrong in a little game on a Sunday in a pub, even though the Squire always laughed long and loud and told him that if Alicia ever found out what he did with his Sundays he’d be tossed out of the parish. But Reverend Trout knew that the Squire would never tell, and even if she found out, he, the Squire, would let him stay on for the duration, for after all it was the Squire’s money that paid his stipend.

He knew the Squire would be content to let him stay on even when Reverend Drinkwater came home—there was never any doubt that he would come home from the East—but, “after all, Reverend Trout, he is my sister’s husband, and well, as you know, the parish carries a seat in the House of Commons and all that. Man’s got a lot of responsibility being the Reverend of Tuncliffe, in normal times, you know. And Theo’s such a decent chap. Did all right in Parliament—he’d just made his maiden speech when this blasted war started. If it hadn’t been for that, well, you never can tell. They say he’s got a good chance to be a Minister some day. No telling what position a man of his talent can attain.”

Then suddenly Reverend Trout stopped. He stared down, filled with the beauty of what he saw. There was a crocus, the first he had seen this spring, growing sturdily from the good earth. And around the slim green shafts was a cowpat, fertilizing the soil. But the Reverend Trout did not see the manure. He only saw the beauty of the crocus, pellucid, and from its beauty, he knew the majesty of the Lord.

Now, on this sun-kissed Sunday, Peter Marlowe listened as Drinkwater finished the sermon. Blodger had long since gone to Ward Six, but whether Drinkwater had helped him there, Peter Marlowe could never prove. Drinkwater still got many eggs from somewhere.

Peter Marlowe’s stomach told him it was time for lunch.

When he got back to his hut, the men were already waiting, mess cans in hands, impatient. The extra was not going to arrive today. Or tomorrow according to rumor. Ewart had already checked the cookhouse. Just the usual. That was all right too, but why the hell don’t they hurry up?

Grey was sitting on the end of his bed.

“Well, Marlowe,” he said, “you eating with us these days? Such a pleasant surprise.”

“Yes, Grey, I’m still eating here. Why don’t you just run along and play cops and robbers? You know, pick on someone who can’t hit back!”

“Not a chance, old man. Got my eye on bigger game.”

“Jolly good luck.” Peter Marlowe got his mess cans ready. Across the way from him Brough, kibitzing a game of bridge, winked.