The Midden

Chapter 29

As the last marksman was carried from the front lawn and the forensic experts flown in from Scotland Yard ('The hell with what that moron Gonders says, I'm putting you in command,' the Home Secretary told the Commissioner of Police) began the almost impossible task of distinguishing the remains of Mrs Devizes from those of Mrs Laura Midden Rayter and the other burnt corpses (only DNA tests might do that); while the lobster-coloured cook explained to a TV audience of at least fifteen million how she and the other kitchen staff had escaped the holocaust by hiding in the cellar and being boiled; as the persons who cared and were concerned went back to their extremely expensive conference hotel to discuss the sphincter in an entirely different context, namely as it applied to those arseholes of the anti-feminist State, the police; in short as things got back to normal, the Dean led the Porterhouse Mission to the Isle of Dogs away from the smouldering squalor that had been the Middenhall. In the thicket Consuelo McKoy fumbled with her silver cat suit and wondered if she would ever feel the same way about small boys.

Inspector Rascombe knew he wouldn't. In the back of a police van he had no interest whatsoever in the fate of little kiddies. As far as he was concerned they could hold Black Masses and slaughter the little buggers on an hourly basis and he would rejoice. He had nothing else to rejoice about. They were waiting for him at Police Headquarters and the two detectives who had collected him said some Special Interrogators had been flown up from London to have a little chat with him. Rascombe knew what that meant. He had had 'little chats' with people before, and they hadn't enjoyed the process.

Behind him in the wood Phoebe Turnbird left Detective Constable Markin with his thumbs tied together round the back of a tree, a trick she had been taught by old Brigadier General Turnbird, who had done the same thing to a great many captured PoWs before interrogating them. Then she headed triumphantly up to the Midden farmhouse in her stained and torn white frock and battered hat. She wanted to console poor Marjorie Midden and let her know how desperately, but desperately sorry she was and how she felt for her in her moment of loss. To her amazement she found Miss Midden sitting outside the front door looking remarkably cheerful for a woman who had lost everything.

'Oh, my poor dear...' Phoebe began, disregarding the glow of satisfaction on Miss Midden's face. Miss Turnbird, in spite of her love of poetry, was not a deeply sensitive or perceptive woman, or perhaps poetry was a substitute for sensitivity and perception. She had come up to sympathize with poor dear Marjorie (and to patronize her) and she was going to do it, come hell or high water. Hell there had already been, and as far as the cook was concerned high water had been exceedingly helpful. But Miss Midden had had too good a day to put up with sentimental slush from Phoebe Turnbird, slush and odious sympathy. Besides, it was plain to see that wherever Phoebe had been she hadn't been in church all day. The leaf mould on her face and hands and the state of her dress indicated that. She had obviously been rolling on the ground, having a whale of time.

Looking at her, Miss Midden was struck by a sudden inspiration. She raised her hand and her voice. 'Stop that at once, Phoebe. I won't have it. Now get yourself a chair...no, go upstairs and wash your face first. You look like Barbara Cart You don't look your usual self. Lipstick doesn't suit you. I suppose you put it on for that dreadful old Dean because he once said...Never mind. I shall make a nice pot of tea and then tell you all about it.'

Phoebe lumbered upstairs, and when she came down she looked a good deal better. At least the lipstick had gone, though her attempt the previous evening to pluck her eyebrows was now revealed with mottled clarity to have been a mistake. She fetched a chair and joined Miss Midden in the garden.

'Now then, Phoebe, I have something to tell you. So I want you to listen carefully. I am afraid I have presumed on your hospitality,' she said as she handed Miss Turnbird a very large cup and saucer. 'I've had a very nice boy staying here. He's had a nervous breakdown and he's a bit jumpy. So this morning when the shindig down at the Middenhall...No, dear, do not say anything. I won't discuss it. This is far more important. As I say, when the police began to kill all those people down there, I immediately thought of you and Carryclogs as the perfect place to send the poor boy. Well, to be truthful, he isn't exactly a boy, more a hulking great brute of twenty-eight and not frightfully bright. He likes to call himself Bright, Timothy Bright, but he isn't. That's part of his nervous problem. He's been something in the City and the stress has affected him. He suffers terrible nightmares, and I'm not at all surprised. No one should put a healthy young man in front of a computer screen all day and ask him to make instant decisions about money. It isn't natural. Now, given the healing hand of time and fond affection and plenty of food and fresh air I'm sure he shoots well and rides, he's that sort he'll soon be as right as rain. So I sent him over to your place because I know how good you are and kind and affectionate. He's your class, too. I've met his uncle and the family is a very good one indeed. And his manners aren't bad. I'm sure you'll be able to help the poor boy. Now, I hope you don't mind my taking advantage of you like this but I thought...'

What Miss Midden really thought she kept firmly to herself. If Phoebe Turnbird didn't take that ghastly lout to her ample bosom and to the altar, her own name wasn't Marjorie Midden, the daughter of Bernard Foss Midden and Cloacina von Misthaufen, daughter of General von Misthaufen, whom her father had met and married when she was allowed over to visit the dying General at the Middenhall in 1949. Miss Midden had never known her mother, who had died in childbirth, but her father had always spoken of her as an immensely strong-minded woman whose plain

German cooking had suited his ailing stomach to perfection. 'Dear Clo,' he would say, 'I miss her Blutwurst and Nachspeise sometimes. She had a wonderful appetite, your mother. It was a pleasure to watch her eat. She used to say to me, "We're not really 'vons'. Or Misthaufens. Affectation. We were just plain Scheisse, like you Middens, until the Kaiser came along and somehow we became von Misthaufens. Scheisse is better. Down to earth and no pretendings." And there was a lot of truth in what she said. Your mother was a remarkable woman. She saw things clearly.'

Presently, with the smoke drifting across the sky behind her, Miss Midden drove Phoebe over to Carryclogs and picked up Major MacPhee. She was rid of the Middenhall with all its pretendings and she needn't think about it any more.

She wouldn't have to think about money either. On top of her wardrobe in a cardboard box there was a brown paper parcel containing thousands and thousands of pounds from the man with the razor who had so terrified Timothy Bright. It was never going anywhere now. The Brights had their money back and Phoebe had a fiancé in waiting. Miss Midden herself would go on living at the Midden while Lennox exacted every penny from the authorities for the destruction of the Middenhall. But she would never go to Phoebe's wedding, though Phoebe would undoubtedly want her to. As a bridesmaid.

Miss Midden shuddered at the thought. It would be a hideously noisy wedding and in any case she was not a maid and never intended to be a bride. She would stay the way she was and always would be, an independent woman. She had no intention of marrying for the sheer hell of it. There were enough Middens in the world already without creating any more. And the Major could stay if he wanted to. She didn't much care one way or another. He was a pathetic little creature and she could do with help in the house. But she doubted if he would. The Major's taste for the life of the gutter, she had once heard it called nostalgie de la boue, though in his case it was less boue than ordure, would call to him. As the old Humber drove past Six Lanes End she saw, limping towards them, a tattered and besmirched figure. Miss Midden stopped and asked if she could be of any assistance.

'Very kind of you, I'm sure. I'm trying to find the way to Piccadilly Circus, but no one round here seems to know.' It was Buffalo Midden and the boue in his case was entirely genuine.

'Get in,' said Miss Midden, 'I'm going that way myself.'

Beside her Major MacPhee began to gibber a protest. 'Shut up,' said Miss Midden. 'Shut up or get out and walk.' The Major shut up. He had walked far enough that day.

As they drove into the farmyard Miss Midden knew she would never be rid of stupid old men and their mad fantasies. Being a kindly, sensible woman, she didn't mind. In a way, it was her calling.

The End