The Pagan House

‘You’ve got a much better voice than I do!’ Guthrie said.

‘You’re not one of his victims too, are you?’ Bob asked, grinning at Warren as if he might be making a joke.

‘Harriet Stone at your service.’

‘I’m surprised at that,’ Bob said. ‘I’d’ve thought your hands would be full with the Blackberry Festival and whatnot. Which seems to be a much better use of your time. That to me is good history.’

‘Bob likes to divide things into good and bad,’ Janice said.

When a knock came on the front door, Warren sighed. ‘We know who that’ll be, don’t we?’ he said.

‘You’re too hard on Jerry. You shouldn’t be,’ Fay said.

‘Jerry?’ said Bob. ‘Jerome Prindle? Is he ambulatory?’

‘In a manner of speaking,’ Warren said. ‘He’s wooing Fay.’

‘Warren!’ Fay said, and the blush on her cheek could have signified shyness or embarrassment or pleasure, or just the spreading of the rash that Edgar guiltily associated with the disinfectant-doused flannel he had used to clean the bathroom.

‘I’m sorry,’ the wreckage of the man in the doorway said. ‘I didn’t know you had company. I brought a seed-cake. I’ll go.’

‘You will not. You’ll sit down and join us,’ Fay said.

The latest guest was an old man, who seemed to have outlived his body and his clothes. His skin was mottled red and white, his trousers and shirt were brown and stained. His face was decorated with patches of stubble. His mouth hung open, showing his tongue, which was the same pale colour as his lips. He watched Fay through blue eyes that were glazed and swimming, while his hands clawed slowly at the tablecloth. He sat between Mon and Coach Spiro, who both angled their chairs away from him.

‘Tom’s looking well,’ Jerome said.

‘He’s on a new diet,’ Fay said. ‘Dry food only. It seems to have cleared up some of his catarrh. But he sleeps all of the time. Sometimes I think it would be a mercy—’

Warren interrupted: ‘Maybe Ed should be trying out for your soccer team.’

‘Are you a player?’ Coach asked, to which Edgar could only shake his head for an answer.

‘He’s very good at it,’ Mon brazenly lied, in misjudged loyalty.

‘I’m really not,’ Edgar managed to say.

‘Better to underestimate yourself than the other. Marilou for example thinks she can sing,’ Coach said accusingly at Warren.

‘I’m sure she’s going to make an adorable Mary Pagan,’ Guthrie said.

‘Do we need that stuff, is what I’m asking,’ Bob said. ‘It’s all kind of weird to my way of thinking.’

‘She was a fascinating character,’ Warren said.

‘A little too fascinating, if you know what I mean. I think those dowagers from the forties had the right idea.’

‘What they did was awful,’ Fay said. ‘Pete was so furious.’

‘Yeah. Well. Pete,’ Bob said, winking at Coach.

‘He was a good man,’ Jerome said.

‘He was a very good man,’ Fay said.

‘I guess. But I wouldn’t have had Spanky Pete be my judge of right and wrong. You know what I’m saying? Those ladies were protecting the families and the Company. That’s not so awful in my book. But tell me, who’s playing my wife’s most illustrious ancestor?’

‘He still can’t find a John Prindle Stone,’ Fay said. ‘Who would have thought it so difficult to find a good baritone?’

‘We’re running out of time,’ Warren said.

‘I hope I’ll still be around to see it,’ Fay said, with a surprising cheerfulness.

‘Is it only me or does this cream taste sour?’ said Janice.

‘It’s crème fraîche,’ Warren said.

‘That’s what I’m asking and I don’t think it is.’

‘What I’d absolutely love to know,’ Marilou said fascinatingly, leaning towards Warren, the rough shoulder of her sweater scratching Edgar’s arm, ‘is Mary’s motivation. Do you think much of it is religious or does it all come down to love?’

‘What on earth has happened to the azalea?’ Jerome demanded to know.

Warren was being besieged on all sides. Janice was waving her spoon (Community plate, 1933) of suspicious cream. Marilou had rested her chin on her fist and was nodding encouragingly to pull Warren’s required response out of him. Edgar decided to help. ‘We saw some Indians yesterday,’ he said.

After watching the drip of cream from Janice’s spoon on to the table, Warren, in reciprocation, said, helpfully, ‘The bingo hall.’

‘It’s ironic, isn’t it?’ Fay said. ‘They’re making these little amounts of money from gambling when they’re such an unlucky people. Warren’s thinking of donating the profits from the opera to help them.’

‘That’s a lovely idea. I think the Indians are tragic,’ Marilou said. ‘In the true sense of the word.’

‘Talk of profits is somewhat optimistic,’ Warren said, ‘but we’re going to try to make some kind of donation to their education fund.’

‘Yeah right. Wigwam College,’ Bob said.

‘I don’t think that gives entirely the right impression to our visitors,’ Guthrie said.

‘With all due respect, I don’t think our visitors will ever understand this place until they’ve been here as long as I have. But the Onyatakas have got to face up to things. The trouble with history, it’s like everything else, there’s winners and losers and the Indians are the losers. It’s unfortunate, but if it wasn’t for rain you wouldn’t have rainbows, you know what I’m saying?’

‘Now they’re talking about building a casino,’ Guthrie said.

‘Pie in the sky,’ Bob said.

‘Bob says it’s never going to happen,’ Janice said.

‘It never is going to happen,’ Bob said. ‘The Onyatakas think it’s going to be a licence to print money, but they’ll never get it together. They never do. I remember something really choice that Mac said to me once. There was this Onyataka who worked as a gardener at the Mansion House—do you remember him, Fay? Kind of scruffy fellow, wore a straw hat. Liked his booze.’

‘His name was Ronald,’ Jerome said.