Dandruff Hits The Turtleneck Page 14

  Chapter Fourteen

  Outpourings at the Vicarage

  ‘Come in, come in,’ says the Reverend Colin Wheatsheaf, amending the position of his fishing basket and holdall to enable Arnold Matson to squeeze past and into the hallway.

  ‘Good of you to see me, vicar,’ said Arnold, ‘I know you’re a busy man.’

  ‘Colin, please, Arnold…call me, Colin,’ said the Reverend, ‘Please, come through to the living room.’

  For days now, Arnold Matson had been thinking that the inside of his head had been fairly scrambled and chaotic; that was until he had taken three more steps and entered Wheatsheaf’s front room…

  ‘Go through and make yourself at home,’ said Colin, ‘I’ll go and prepare us some tea.’

  Make yourself at home? It’ll take me a fortnight to find something to sit on, thought Matson. Arnold’s first impression of the place resembled a cross between the aftermath of an invasion during the blitz and a recycling plant.

  The room was certainly impressive by design, but if the architect who had sweated blood to get this place from drawing board to bricks and mortar could see what had happened to his baby since his flash of inspiration, I reckon the coronary unit at the local hospital would be his first port of call.

  The bookshelves were groaning and buckling under the pressure, but at least they were moored in the relatively safe harbour of the living room walls and alcoves. It was when you scanned the floor and mountainous tables that the true picture unfolded. Being a publican, Arnold Matson is certainly no stranger to dealing with empty bottles, but even he doubted whether there would be room for this lot in his car park, never mind the actual pub.

  He began to nose around, sidestepping overflowing cardboard boxes, wellington boots, lawn mower parts, broom handles, take-away cartons, piles of washing, tool boxes, framed photographs of Alsatian’s, untouched family packs of fruit juice, an unassembled vacuum cleaner, a garden scythe, bin bags full of crockery, curtain rails, an old bicycle frame and an ancient-looking rocking chair containing a ventriloquist’s dummy…All this flotsam and jetsam, yet Arnold had only managed to make about three-yards progress…

  He spotted an airline ticket on the central table. Out of curiosity he picked it up and examined it. The ticket was from twenty-five years ago.

  And so it went on…newspapers from a previous decade, bank statements scattered like confetti which Arnold didn’t feel he should intrude upon, long-playing albums, some in sleeves, some gathering dust and leaning against an old fireguard or washing powder box…

  ‘Here we are, Arnold…’ The Reverend Colin Wheatsheaf calls softly from the hallway as he returns with the refreshments.

  Arnold decided he had better grab a book from the thousands on offer in-case it looked as though he had been rummaging through the wreckage.

  He snatches one at random. Would you believe it…’How to Achieve Self-Sufficiency.’ Matson quickly fumbles it back on the shelf and turns to half-heartedly smile as the vicar re-enters the room.

  ‘Ah, there you are, Arnold…enjoying the library are you?’

  ‘Unbelievable,’ returns Matson, in stunned incredulity.

  ‘Arnold, it’s such a nice day I thought we might enjoy our tea in the garden,’ suggests Wheatsheaf.

  Before Matson has managed to say, ‘Lovely,’ the Reverend Colin is toddling in his open-toed sandals towards the greenery. Arnold manages to edge, slide and slither his way back through the obstacle course of the front room and is relieved to be heading towards fresh air once again. Unfortunately, en-route, as it were, he has the misfortune of passing and glancing into the kitchen. Different room, same chaos…Knowing he is about to drink tea that has just been prepared on this unhygienic bombsite, Arnold merely shakes his head in disbelief and makes his way towards the company of the Reverend Colin who has settled nicely at a bench underneath the overhanging apple tree.

  Evolution is, for most of the time, a race to stay in the same place. The worst enemies of any animal are among its relatives and descendants, who need the same things and may have evolved better ways to get them. Unless a parent can keep up with its children, its fate is sealed. Most cannot, and disappear. As a result, at any time, just the tips of the twigs of any evolutionary tree are visible…

  To his surprise, and after the shock of seeing the living room, Arnold Matson found the garden at the vicarage to be extremely pleasant. With his love of wildlife, Arnold welcomed the idea of an overgrown haven that encourages all types of animal and creature to make a home.

  The tea cup he is about to sip from had seen better days and doubtless the tannin stains around the lip of the vessel would all add nicely to the flavour and experience, but you can’t have everything…

  ‘Nice little sanctuary you have here, Colin,’ complimented Arnold.

  ‘Oh, do you think so, Arnold? I’m so pleased you like it,’ said Wheatsheaf, proffering a strange-looking cup cake, ‘I’m afraid my knowledge of nature doesn’t stretch anywhere near your magnitude but none the less…’

  ‘That’s the beauty of nature, Colin. You don’t need to know anything to be able to enjoy it. Just sit still, keep a look-out and prepare to be amazed,’ enthused Arnold.

  ‘Oh, quite…quite,’ chipped in Wheatsheaf, innocently.

  Both men took in the tranquility before the reverend returned to home ground…

  ‘You wanted to see me, Arnold? Something troubling you, perhaps?’ prompted Wheatsheaf.

  For the present, and still, to some extent, in a state of shock at having seen the total squalor in which the man opposite him chose to reside, Arnold felt the least he could do is turn the tables on the holy man and keep things light and conversational. It was, after all, a beautiful autumnal afternoon.

  ‘I never knew you were a fisherman, Colin?’

  ‘Oh yes. Fished all my life,’ said Wheatsheaf. Arnold gave him the green light.

  ‘What is it you like about it?’ The reverend thought for a moment before he answered…

  ‘Well, patience and respect are two of its finer virtues, I should say. Waiting for three hours under a fishing umbrella, eating cheese sandwiches in a thunderstorm, while watching a tiny float doing nothing except bobbing in a torrent of raindrops…’ He petered out before concluding, ‘I’m not sure Cistercian Monks could endure the sort of solitude for the number of years that I have…’ Arnold was content to listen to the man.

  ‘But come the moment when the float goes under and you strike and feel the connection with what you have waited so long for…and they are such beautiful creatures. Once you unhook it and let it swim away…’

  Arnold slowly pointed out a Robin on the branch of a Hazel tree and both men enjoyed its song for a few moments.

  ‘Have you never fished, Arnold?’ enquired the vicar.

  ‘No, I haven’t. Strange that, really,’ said Matson.

  ‘You’ll have to join me sometime,’ said Wheatsheaf, warmly. Matson was genuinely taken by the idea.

  ‘I’d like that, Colin. Thanks very much,’ he said.

  ‘Hey, I may have never been fishing, but how about this for a story,’ said Matson, recalling his studies.

  ‘Go on,’ said Wheatsheaf, pouring more tea.

  ‘I bet you didn’t know that a female codfish can live for two decades and lay nine million eggs a year,’ said Matson.

  ‘Good gracious,’ breathed the vicar. Matson went on.

  ‘And it has been calculated that if no accident prevented the hatching of the eggs and each egg reached maturity, it would only take three years to fill the sea so that you could walk across the Atlantic dry-shod on the backs of cod.’

  ‘Good heavens.’ The reverend was totally amazed.

  A few moments passed as they both contemplated.

  ‘Now, what did you want to see me about, Arnold,’ said Wheatsheaf.

  ‘Oh, it’ll keep, Colin,’ said Arnold Matson, settling back to enjoy the late-afternoon sunshine.