Pigs in Clover
At our last meeting before lockdown, our Creative Writing Group were given the following to weave into a story. A vicar, A village Fete, the Nineteen Twenties, and a pig. My mind immediately went to Blandings Castle and P.G Wodehouse, and I wondered if I could create something in his style. The characters of Walter and Honoria are my own invention, but though the story is my own I have stolen the names of Sir Gregory, Cyril, Oates, Lord Emsworth, Lady Constance and the Empress herself from P.G. It is only a taster. Perhaps I might try and finish the story another day, but there would have to be several cases of mistaken identity and some stolen jewels at least. Exhausting!
The Reverend Fenwick woke with a start. Unusual as it might be in a Shropshire rectory it was definitely a shrill scream that had woken him, not the call of some animal species, but of the human, female variety. It couldn’t have been Mrs. Fenwick, vicars’ wives, even in the licentious twenties are not prone to shrill screams. And yet, undeniably here she was looming in the bedroom doorway, her dressing gown visibly pulsating, uttering incoherent sounds. She was a figure to be reckoned with, age had not wearied her, or the years condemned, her quaking form more or less filled the doorway.
“Whatever is the matter Honoria” seemed an appropriate opening gambit as he put on his glasses, though heaven knows he didn’t need them to see her. She seemed to have collected herself sufficiently for human converse only to the extent of a single utterance. Regarding her husband wild eyed she shrieked “PIG”. They had been married for forty odd years, and she had never formerly seen fit to apply this sort of invective to her husband. He was visibly taken aback. “Honoria, dear, you are distracted!” was all that came to mind. It was a thought that had often crossed his mind that in spite of all his ardent study, the Bible never seemed to render suitable quotations for use in testing circumstances. Though to be fair there can’t have been much call in biblical days for calming mad vicar’s wives.
“Walter, there is a pig in the kitchen, an enormous pig, it grunted at me, shows no signs of leaving, and is doing what pigs do, copiously!” Apart from Christ sending some unfortunate porkers galloping over a cliff edge, the Rev. Fenwick’s only previous experience of the animal had been its presence on his dinner plate, accompanied by the appropriate apple sauce, but seeing his wife’s distress he racked his brains for other instances “Biscuits, preferably digestive” he exclaimed, as he donned his robe, with as much speed as his arthritis would allow, “One entices them with biscuits.” “We only have water biscuits Walter, your stipend does not lend itself to luxury.” “Tut tut never mind” he muttered, the arctic lino sending spears of ice up through his feet and rather bony shins.
It was indeed an enormous creature, though not seemingly intent on ravaging the rectory kitchen. In fact it seemed quite peacefully inclined, and looked hopefully at the two new entrants, no doubt thinking these two looked a likely soft touch for a few digestives. “We will use the belts from our robes as a makeshift lead, and then take it into the garden. It will do no harm there, and we can telephone for Constable Oates”
All this seemed an unjustified disturbance to the life of a rural clergyman on the day of the Village Fete, always a trying occasion packed with incident without the intervention of unexplained pigs. Although the huge animal appeared to have very little in the way of a neck, the lead was attached, and at the expense of a whole packet of water biscuits, it was enticed into the garden, the garden gate secured and the kitchen door firmly shut to prevent further ingress by animals of any sort.
In fact, it was Lord Emsworth’s malodorous pigman, Cyril Welbeloved who had deposited the animal, none other than the Shropshire fatstock show supreme champion of the last five years the Empress of Blandings. His Lordship, had been press ganged into opening the fete under the orders of his sister Lady Constance. She of the iron hand in the iron glove would brook no resistance. But in a rare moment of rebellion his Lordship, had decided that the populace should also be graced with the presence of his magnificent champion and had instructed Welbeloved, early enough in the a.m. for him to be comparatively sober, to deposit her in the vicarage garden, from whence she could make her entrance onto the village green. Lord Emsworth was not accustomed to making elaborate plans, or indeed plans of any kind, and remembering details, indeed remembering anything was not his forte. In this case the detail he had forgotten was to inform the vicar.
After alerting constable Oates, who was a trifle irritated by being roused from his bed, and with the assurance that he would “look into the matter” the Fenwicks sat down to a shaky breakfast.
The harsh scraping of marmalade over somewhat burned toast, managed to obscure the sound in the Lane outside of the hooves of an approaching horse. Astride the horse sat the portly figure of Sir Gregory Parsloe of Matchingham Hall, proud owner of the Queen of Matchingham, arch rival of the Empress in the field of porcine pulchritude. From his elevated position he could clearly see the intruder in the vicarage garden, and knew very well what he was looking at. Sir Gregory was no novice in the dark arts of competitor nobbling, and held his rival Clarence Emsworth in derision, but wished to be in the good books of Lady Constance, whose profile and deportment he greatly admired. To be the noble rescuer of the Empress might just achieve that end.
Dismounting, he removed her from her durance vile, and using the unlikely bands of candlewick around her, endearing noises usual reserved for the Queen of Matchingham, and some horse nuts fortunately secreted in his pocket he coaxed her out into the lane. His horse Persephone, did not care to keep company with a porker and began to skitter about disapprovingly, but the Empress knew a good thing when she saw it, and a pocket containing horse nuts was to be followed. After about fifty yards the ill assorted trio were cracking on at a reasonable pace when to Sir Gregory’s horror he heard the sound of an approaching motor vehicle. Aware of his invidious position as the companion of a pig not his own, he decided the better part of valour was to be unseen. Thinking with amazing alacrity for such a heavy person, he loosed his horse through an adjacent gateway – she would find her own way home across the field, and his groom would assume that Sir Gregory had just fallen off again. (a routine occurrence, given the noble baronet’s adherence to the single malt). The Empress, however, spotting the attractions of a nearby ditch, launched would be too fanciful a description for one of her proportions, slithered and plopped, into its glorious cool wet mud, pulling Sir Gregory, still unsuspectingly attached to the Vicar’s dressing gown belt, in after her.
The icy mud could be felt even through the thickness of his expensive riding boots, and traces of thick muddy water soon began to ooze over the tops, and through the not insubstantial cord of his breeches, even unto the knees, but mercifully the vehicle passed. Just as he began to consider how to remove the Empress from the delights of her mud bath, he heard a sound that was as music to his ears, the sound of the tuneless whistle of Cyril Welbeloved followed closely by his distinct aroma and the crunching of heavy feet on the gravel road.
The empress gave a joyful grunt of recognition at the sound and odour of her approaching hero, and Parsloe began to raise himself gingerly over the parapet of the ditch. Welbeloved was now clearly in sight, but to Sir Gregory’s dismay he realised that the audible boot crunchings had not been made by the tattered pig engrimed boots of the approaching Welbeloved, but from the other direction by the highly polished black uniform boots of Constable Oates, whose eyes were now goggling at the mud soaked peer with that look of aggressive enquiry peculiar to the Constabulary of England … … …
(It’s amazing how many more words you have to use to try to imitate Wodehouse! He never says anything in three words that can be said in six. -B)